


The One Who Made Him Stay

by JayEz



Series: Fixing Spectre [1]
Category: James Bond (Movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, BAMF Q, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Fix-It, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Q, M/M, MI6 Family Feels, Post-SPECTRE, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:58:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5169779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-one days after the Double-oh programme is reinstated, James Bond returns to MI6 with his Aston Martin and without Dr Swann. This is only the beginning of Q's problems.</p><p>
  <em>A Spectre Fix-It. COMPLETE.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Postcards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this right after watching "Spectre" while still on the bus back to my flat, because even though I might not be able to change the film's ending, I can at least write a fix-it! And yes, I named Q's cats Turing and Linux...
> 
> The title is a play on a line from "Writing's on the wall", the Spectre song by Sam Smith.
> 
> Endless thanks to [merlenhiver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merlenhiver) for initial con-crit and cheerleading, as well as [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) for being the world's fastest beta with incredible Brit-picking superpowers!

The weeks immediately following the dismantling of SPECTRE are an absolute _mess_. With the joint chief dead, a worldwide conspiracy exposed, and the puppeteer behind everything in custody, the global community is scrambling to make sense of it all and find a path out of these twisted shadows. 

Q, thankfully, only catches glimpses of it.

It is incredibly fortunate that Bond’s penchant for destruction has yet to extend to digital sources, thus ensuring SPECTRE's records to endure for Q to untangle. He spends a solid week chained to his workstation, taking off layer after layer until his fingers cramp up, something that has not happened since he hacked NORAD on a dare at university. 

“Q, your testimony is in two hours and you’re more of a biohazard than a person right now,” Eve’s voice startles him out of his trance, fingers freezing over the keyboard. 

“Testimony?”

She looks exhausted, her make-up not enough to hide the circles underneath her eyes, yet someone less familiar with her would probably not notice. The bright blue dress should provide ample distraction as well. 

“The committee called you as an expert on cyber security to comment on the need for the Double-oh programme – or lack thereof.”

Q narrows his eyes, the words ringing a very distant bell. “Oh yes. What day is it?”

“Tuesday,” Eve says, her tone mocking. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Q feels his eyes widen and his face turn pale. “Bugger.”

“Your cats miss you, but they’re fed. I’ll send you the bill for the cleaners, though,” Eve adds. “Turing decided my clothes needed some accessories.”

“He is shedding something terrible at the moment, I know.” Q pulls his glasses off, rubbing his eyes. He remembers napping on a futon in a corner at some point, as well as meals that miraculously appeared next to his elbow, mugs of steaming tea and changes of clothes blinking in and out of existence. 

“And Linux peed in my shoes. The really expensive ones.”

Q groans. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“You can start by showering. Be ready in half an hour.”

Eve watches over him like a hawk as he saves every application and sends off instructions to his merry band of minions, then hands him a clothing bag holding his best (and only) suit, freshly cleaned and pressed.

He is almost out of the room when her call makes him turn around. 

“Oh, and Q?” Eve’s expression is tense, her eyebrows furrowed in worry. “We’re counting on you.”

*

There is nothing like spending an hour being pestered about fundamental issues of international security to make the stress and pressure of the past weeks catch up with someone. 

Q’s limbs feel heavy as he emerges from the video conference room, located near M’s office in the CNS tower that still does not feel like _home_. His boss is waiting for him in the foyer. The sight should not have come as a surprise, given the weight his testimony will carry for just how difficult M’s job is going to be. 

M does not ask how it went. Instead the man places a parental hand on his shoulder. “Go home, Q.” 

“But I still –” 

“You have an entire staff of highly qualified technicians. They can handle everything for a day.”

“ _A day?!_ ” he blurts before he can stop himself, his tone practically scandalised as if M had suggested he install Windows Vista on all of MI6’s computers. A voice inside his head that sounds suspiciously like Eve murmurs something about needing a life, yet he stifles it immediately. 

M simply gives him a look somewhere between amused and exasperated, and Q acquiesces. Well, he does after leaving the rest of Q-Branch with minute instructions on which files they are allowed to touch and what to leave alone until he is back. 

His eyelids are drooping by the time he taps his code into his keypad, shifting his mail into his other hand and sparing a fleeting thought to why some people still waste paper for actual letters. As he enters the flat, Q almost stumbles over Turing and Linux who are already berating him for his long absence with painful mewls that do not subside even when he kneels down and caresses his flatmates. 

Something slips out of the stack of mail, startling Turing and Linux and drawing Q’s gaze. 

It is a postcard, an incredibly corny compilation of the most popular tourist traps of Paris. Q is already smiling before he picks it up. He has identified the sender without flipping the card and reading the inscription, given that it is only the last addition to a tradition that started with late-night banter over the comms since James Bond is incapable of suffering through tedious stakeouts on his own. 

Q straightens with a heavy sigh. The Double-oh programme might return, yet their best agent will definitely not. 

Linux meows at him. 

“I don’t miss him,” Q argues. 

Linux blinks dubiously. Apparently Q cannot even fool his cat. 

“Well, it’s not like I can change anything.” Brilliant – now he sounds defensive. “Let’s just go to bed.”

His two balls of fur follow without complaint, curling up next to him instead of taking up most of the bed as they usually do in what Q cannot help but interpret as a heart-warming albeit somewhat uncharacteristic gesture of feline love. Yet contrary to Turing and Linux, it takes Q a few minutes to fall asleep, his head too full of questions about the future of MI6, the Double-ohs, and whether or not Bond will send more postcards which Q can hide in the shoe box underneath his bed.

Good thing this is something Eve is unaware of. 

*

The committee reinstates the Double-oh programme and most of the British intelligence community breathes a sigh of utter relief. 

It is Q who reassigns shorthands and aliases immediately after, so it is well within the limits of his powers to just… not give the number 7 to anyone. 

Only a select few have high enough clearance to know, however, and the majority of these people seem just as content about his decision as he is. Tanner wordlessly places a box of his favourite brand of tea on his desk while Eve brings him a sponge cake from her late afternoon coffee run. M even gives him a rare smile, so either Q really did good or the world is ending. Then again at MI6, these two usually go hand in hand.

*

“Come on, one more!” Eve says, not even waiting for a response before topping up Q's glass. 

That, however, doesn't mean he has to actually drink it. Eve raises her own and proves once again how much better she handles liquor by raising an impeccable eyebrow. 

“Some of us have an early start tomorrow.” 

“All of us do,” Eve points out. 

“Then why are we doing this?” 

“Because MI6 is back, the Double-oh programme’s back, and my boyfriend’s out of town, so you'll have to do.” 

Q has learnt how to pick his battles, a skill forged mostly while arguing with stubborn agents with licences to kill. This is one he will have to concede. 

Eve jeers as he finally picks up his glass and clicks it against her own. The noise startles Turing, but it's his own bloody fault for choosing an armchair in the living room to sleep. He meows at them, which only serves to make Eve laugh more, and the sound sends Turing off to seek out quieter pastures. Knowing his luck, the cat is probably going to end up in Q's bed with Linux and manage to take up two thirds of the mattress. Lovely. 

“He'll be back, you know.” 

“Who?” 

Eve smirks. Q sighs. It is rather obvious. 

“What makes you say that?” 

“I know him.” 

“He drove off into the sunset with her. Well,” Q amends, “sunrise. Or what counts as such in London.”

“Want to make it a wager?” 

Q shakes his head immediately. “Oh, I learnt my lesson, Miss Moneypenny.” 

He had indeed. Last time they bet on something, Q ended up having to wear _polyester_ to work. His skin didn't stop itching for a week. The time before that, Eve made him accompany her to a club, which he detests and where he promptly ran into Daryl from Accounting. He would bet his laptop that was not a coincidence – that woman is devious. 

Though once she is onto something, Eve is like a dog with a bone. Another reason Q is a cat person himself. 

“Come on, I promise I'll go easy this time.” 

He tilts his head, considering her. She is perched on the edge of his sofa, a battered but comfortable thing that has survived university with him. Her body language oozes confidence when Q genuinely has no clue why. James Bond got his happy ever after - why would he return? 

His thoughts must have been blatantly displayed on his face, for the corners of Eve's mouth lift triumphantly. 

Bugger. 

“Fine,” he succumbs. “Name your price.” 

She answers without missing a beat. “You wear the cardigan I got you for your birthday to work.”

Q sinks back into his chair with a groan. Said cardigan is a synthetic-cotton monstrosity, mostly black but with rainbow-flag coloured stripes across the chest. It is like a drop of blood on a white carpet – glaringly obvious and diametrically opposed to the way Q usually conducts himself.

“Well, what’s yours?” Eve prompts, leaning forward for emphasis. 

Q does not need to think long. “You finally replace the mug you broke.”

Her brown eyes are the paragon of innocence. “That was _not_ me.”

“No, but it was you who instigated my minions.” 

“Maybe if you didn’t call them minions, you wouldn’t have that problem.” She is smirking, though, and a moment later she raises her glass. “Done.”

“Done,” Q echoes, not quite able to shake the feeling he just signed his death warrant. 

* 

When twenty-one days later the doors to Q-Branch’s new home in the lower level of the CNS building open to reveal Bond’s Aston Martin, only bearing minimal scratches and missing nothing too obvious, it costs Q every ounce of self-discipline to keep his features even. 

The surprise, however, still manages to seep into his tone. “007?”

“Q.”

Bond’s eyes are a blend of mirth and acceptance, filled with warmth as if he, too, felt that MI6 has been incomplete without him roaming the halls. 

“For future reference,” Q says, motioning towards the car, “this is the condition in which I’d like you to return your equipment to me.”

Bond’s lips curl into a smile. “Noted. Got any more advice for my first day back?”

“Never make a bet with Miss Moneypenny,” spills from his mouth before Q can stop it. He wishes he were seated if only to touch his forehead to the desk. 

Too late – Bond is already outright smirking, a dangerous twinkle in his eyes that, when Q had seen it last, led to endless teasing about his inability to defend his bed against two barely fully grown felines. 

“I’ll be sure to remember that,” 007 practically purrs before sauntering off, startled minions jumping out of his path to hide behind prototypes. 

Q takes a moment to note the novel quality to the man’s gait, the renewed confidence that has been somewhat lacking ever since Dr Swann entered the picture and brought with her visions of retirement and bliss. Q always thought surrender would be miserable to look at, yet on Bond it does not have the air of defeat. Instead he sees a man coming home after one last act of rebellion. 

Q’s phone vibrates with a message from Eve. 

_Told you so! Wear it on the day of his first medical._

Sometimes Q wonders what he ever did to deserve this life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more to come, the 'when' depending on how my Muse cooperates around RL and other fanfic responsibilities ;) 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this!
> 
> PS: You can also find me on [tumblr](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/), for those interested.


	2. Shoot to miss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS. _Guys._ I have no words for how humbled and awed I am by the reaction this fic has received in this short time! The reason I can update so swiftly is your feedback, seriously – it is incredibly motivating. I sincerely hope chapter 2 lives up to your expectations :)
> 
> A few notes:  
> “Abuela” is the Spanish word for grandma; [Riverlight](http://www.berkeleygroup.co.uk/new-homes/london/vauxhall/riverlight), the high-rises mentioned in the fic, do exist and are really pretty, [The Battersea Dogs and Cats Home](http://www.battersea.org.uk/) is a real place that does awesome work, and last but not least, Q's cat Linux is based in part on [Lizzy](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/post/96961032934/some-things-never-change-whenever-im-working-on), one of my own cats whom I left behind when moving out of my parents’ house (link contains an adorable cat picture!)

James doesn’t find peace at a beach in Spain. 

He also doesn’t find peace in France, or in Austria where they eventually buy a house to settle down. James always thought he would find it during retirement, once he has stopped running, found someone who makes him want to stay and shed the chains of MI6, leaving that life behind for good. 

For a while it seems as if it might actually work out. He teaches self-defence classes at the clinic that hires Madeleine with one glance at her impressive CV. He cooks for them most nights, dresses in denim and tees instead of dress shirts and ties, does the shopping, takes her on dates that don’t end in anyone drawing a gun. 

And yet he still finds himself listening for that voice in his ear, checking every room he enters for possible exit points, tailing Madeleine’s co-workers to ensure their motifs for associating with her are pure. 

Then headlines proclaim that the Double-oh programme has been reinstated, and James’s skin starts actively prickling. 

Their conversations turn into arguments mere days after that. Madeleine knows how to cut him to the bone and he is still too deep in denial to see the truth in her accusations. What started with a bang burns out just as swiftly; murmured “I love you”s losing their sincerity the more James’s thoughts turn to England. 

“I thought I could change you,” Madeleine murmurs two weeks after the news broke. “Thought you would stop running for me.” 

“I did,” James says, though Madeleine is shaking her head. 

Her hand cups James’s cheek as she meets his gaze with regret-filled eyes. “You only slowed down.”

Her voice echoes in his head for hours after. That night James tosses and turns in bed to no avail, yet the sleepless hours give him ample time to think. 

Something settles deep within him as he makes his decision. Peace of mind is not retirement after all – peace of mind is the acceptance that, for James, life will never extend beyond active duty. 

He retrieves his suits from the back of the wardrobe, signs over the house to Madeleine, takes the keys to his Aston Martin, and heads home. 

*

“James?” 

Eve pulls the door open a little further and James gives her a sincere smile. 

“You don’t sound as surprised as I expected.”

“Well, it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?” She sobers when James’s face falls. “I’m sorry.” 

He dismisses her apology with a slight shake of the head. Eve asks him to come in and offers him a drink, sending James’s mind back to a night months ago when their positions were reversed. Only then there was no man seated on the sofa. 

“James, meet my boyfriend Sam,” Eve introduces them. “Sam, this is one of my colleagues, James Bond.”

“Bloody hell, amigo, you look dead on your feet,” is the bloke’s way of greeting. He is tall, yet not taller than James himself. Similar build. At the gym three times a week. Visits his dementia-ridden abuela twice a month. Writes for the sports section of the Guardian and several other newspapers. 

James knows everything there is to know about Samuel Vázquez, 37, diabetic. He owes Eve that much. 

“Thirteen hours on the road will do that, even to me,” James explains as they all take a seat in Eve’s cosy living room, James claiming the armchair with the best vantage point of the rest of the flat. 

“What brings you here, mate?” Sam asks, sounding genuinely curious. 

James chooses his words carefully. After all, the man hasn’t been read in yet. For all he knows, Eve is a common secretary. “Recent break-up. Thought I’d take another shot at my old job.” He glances at Eve. “If they’ll have me back.”

“If you’re prepared to face Rhys’ revenge. He’s still in a snit about the car.” 

He does not dignify that with a response. 009 might be a solid agent, but James had stronger ones for breakfast. 

As if reading his thoughts, Eve’s serious expression morphs into a blinding smile. “Then I see no problem.”

Sam insists on putting James up in their guest room given the late hour, ignoring all of James’s protests and his genuine desire to escape to a five-star hotel. It is a shame that his old flat in Pimlico has long since been handed over to another operative. Eve indulges her partner with a fond look on her face and laughs when Sam swears he can make up the guest bed by himself. Unfortunately, the joviality of the moment is short-lived. 

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out, James.” 

He breathes out audibly. For some reason, Eve interprets this as an invitation to volunteer advice. 

“Maybe you should shoot to miss one of these days. You know, take things slow?”

“Slow,” James echoes with a derisive snort. 

“Why not?”

He is spared an answer by Sam’s return, yet Eve’s meaningful look before she bids him goodnight promises that she is by no means willing to drop the conversation and let him off the hook this easily. 

*

He finds an explanation for Eve’s jovial mood the next day in Q’s muttered remark on making wagers. James shakes his head to himself once he is in the lift that will take him up to meet with Mallory, the appointment squeezed in thanks to Eve’s quiet efficiency. 

Mallory’s new office is spacious, the modern layout and its large windows at odds with the traditionalist furniture. James finds he likes the contradiction. 

“Welcome back, 007.” 

The alias makes something loosen in James’s chest and some of the tension lining his shoulders unfurls. Reading the headlines, his first thought was that someone else would be assigned his codename. 

“You will have to requalify, of course.”

James nods, unfazed. He kept in shape this time. 

Mallory dismisses him soon thereafter without fanfare or large sentimental gestures, yet James caught the softening of Mallory’s eyes, the twitch of his lips, and he knows he made the right decision. Maybe he should even start thinking of the man as ‘M’. 

*

Q looks just as surprised when James comes in for his medical as he did when James returned the day before. Only this time the sight includes a very unusual cardigan with stripes in every colour of the rainbow stretched across the man’s slender torso. 

“Your interpretation of casual Friday needs some work,” James comments drily. Hell, is that synthetic fibre? 

“You’re a riot today, 007. Though I guess as long as that remains in the figurative spheres, I have no right to complain.”

“Is that a challenge, Q?”

The young man pulls himself up to his full height with a stern glint in his eyes. While he has learnt to command the attention of a room and project enough authority to keep his staff in line, Q’s glares have yet to truly scare James. 

“If you only returned to cause another international incident, I’m sure M will be more than happy to assign you to a desk in the darkest corner of this building.”

James cannot contain the smug grin that spreads across his features. “Will I get a dashing cardigan like yours?”

Q blushes at that, his fingers pausing over the keyboard as he attempts to regain his composure. The quartermaster rarely loses it, and the fact that James is the reason he did this time is highly satisfying in its own right. 

“I’ll be sure to let your Secret Santa know your wardrobe is lacking one.”

James allows the grin to morph into a smirk. “I shall hold you to that, Q.”

“Well, then you better behave. After all, Santa doesn’t reward naughty boys.”

The serve is too perfect to pass up. James stands no chance, none at all. He dips his voice lower, turns his voice sultry to ensure there is no way anyone could miss the innuendo, not even the doctor assisting Q. 

“Oh no, naughty boys get the best toys.”

The young man’s eyes go wide as saucers while his skin reddens further, all the way to the collar of the shirt underneath the rainbow cardigan. Dr Searle, a middle-aged blonde with five kids, is used to James’s antics after five years at MI6 and merely laughs. 

“I knew there was something missing from my workday, 007,” Searle teases. “Your blood work looks fine. You ready for the treadmill?”

“With you there, I’m ready for anything,” James flirts, echoing something he said to her during his last physical two years ago. 

“Still married, Mr Bond,” Searle says just as she did back then, but her smile is a little wider. 

Q is pursing his lips at them, obviously fully aware of why James is ingratiating himself with the woman. After all, she is one of the few people with the authority to actually confine him to medical, and James still has no plans of staying there any longer than absolutely necessary. 

James only hopes the psychiatrist will be equally susceptible to his charm.

* 

Eve gives a low whistle when she flips open the file holding the test results. 

“What did you tell Dr Pengelly? This makes you sound almost sane!” 

James just grins and changes the topic. “Does that mean I’m entitled to MI6 paying my rent again?”

And because Eve is a wonderful colleague, she follows his lead and praises a flat that just freed up in one of the newer building complexes on the South Bank, of which MI6 rents a few stories for their employees. James would prefer something less conspicuous, something more private, though his old flat has already been awarded to another agent and the only other option would be to look for something on his own. Since he craves a quick return to the field, he ignores the suspicious glint in Eve’s eyes and agrees to her suggestion. 

He regrets his impatience the moment he arrives at the tall Riverlight high-rise.

This is Q’s address. 

*

“You’re evil,” James grumbles as soon as Eve picks up her cell phone. 

She outright laughs at him. “You mean I’m a good friend.” 

_Friend._ It’s been a while since James had one of those. “And how is that, exactly?”

“I was at your last place, remember? You’re lonely, James. I’m trying to help.”

Every reply that comes to mind sounds either incredibly petulant or defensive, so James stays silent. 

Sudden swearing cuts their conversation short and one moment later all thoughts of meddling co-workers and socialising are forgotten because one of the wayward Spectre members has just been sighted in Jakarta. James is told to head into MI6 immediately to pick up his equipment and passport. 

“We’ll have a housewarming party when you get back,” Eve says as she hands him the tablet containing the mission brief. 

James files the comment away as another attempt at humour on Eve’s part and proceeds to annoy Q about why he still has no exploding pen in his possession. 

*

Only it was by no means a joke, or so James learns as the ring of his doorbell startles him off his sofa the evening after he returns, sore but satisfied in the knowledge that his mark is going to spend the rest of his life in a Swedish prison for his little act of biochemical terrorism last spring.

He pads across the open-floor design that constitutes his living room and kitchen space towards the heavily secured front door, narrowing his eyes at the screen on the wall next to it. Eve is smiling directly at the camera, brandishing what looks like a plant of some kind. 

And she is not alone. 

“I thought you were joking,” James protests as he opens the door. 

“You should know better by now,” Bill Tanner chides. At least the man is holding up a bottle of James’s bourbon of choice, which placates him somewhat regarding this surprise invasion of his flat. 

It is only when both Bill and Eve spill into his flat that James notices the third member of the party. Q has mastered the art of blending into the background long before he joined the Secret Service, if James were to fathom a guess. He seems to have come straight from work given he is still wearing the same cardigan James saw him in when he brought back his equipment. Well, most of it, anyway. 

“Come in,” James tells the man. Everything else would be impolite. 

“Thank you.” Q’s tone is hesitant, almost as if he were under just as much duress as James about this entire situation. 

“I love what the interior designer has done with the place!” Eve shouts from across the room at the window where she puts down the plant, presumably because it needs sunlight. 

“Ha-bloody-ha,” James retorts, watching as Bill retrieves cutlery from the cupboard. 

_Cutlery?_

As if on cue, the doorbell rings again. 

“Oh, that must be the food!” Eve exclaims, already walking back. Her feet make no sound since she has shed her high heels underneath the suddenly rather laden coat stand. 

James glares at her when she re-enters his field of vision, carrying a plastic bag containing still-steaming takeaway boxes that even James has to concede smell delicious, though she shushes him with a wide smile. 

“Don’t look at me like that, James. We’ve all been through so much together, we deserve something nice for a change.”

He knows an impasse when he encounters one. Ten minutes later Eve and Q are sharing the large sofa with Bill and James in the two armchairs, as the group eats from the cartons and Eve and Bill take turns commenting on the minimalistic furniture. 

Q might be the only one feeling even more awkward than James himself, or maybe the quartermaster is simply naturally quiet in larger groups. He does strike him as a man who does not speak solely to fill a silence. 

James isn’t one of those either, at least in theory. In reality he can adapt to every situation. Yet there’s the rub: he has only limited ideas on how to act right now, having only ever been 007 in these people’s presence, a weapon in a human body that can be charming and sends postcards on occasion, if only because it is the only way he can think of thanking Q for keeping him alive and sane during most missions. 

“How’s Michonne?” James asks Bill once the dishes are gone and everyone has something new to drink. 

Tanner’s entire body lights up at the question. “Pregnant,” he announces, the pride unmistakable in his tone. 

James’s congratulations are heartfelt. He likes Bill’s wife, a strong, kind woman who has even gone as far as to invite him over for Christmas dinner for the past three years. 

As if reading his thoughts, Bill stresses that the invitation to Christmas still stands, provided James would not mind the presence of a small child whose birth is expected the week before the holidays. 

“James Bond holding a baby,” Eve coos then, her swooning sigh thankfully too overdramatic to be considered serious. “Be sure to take pictures – I’m sure you could sell them at MI6 and make a fortune.”

James chuckles despite himself. “Don’t you dare, Bill.”

“Your virtue is safe with me,” Tanner deadpans, quirking a single eyebrow. 

Two hours later, James is thoroughly enjoying himself. Obviously he would never admit to the fact if anyone asked, least of all Eve, but there is something relaxing about simply being with people who know more about James’s occupation and past than any other person in existence. 

Q is currently engaged in a debate with Tanner about the appropriate age for children to start playing with technology that is growing more and more heated. James has learnt the hard way how opinionated the quartermaster can be, especially on technical issues. He is never going to look at cordless keypads the same way again. 

_BEEP!_

The sound has everyone tense, hands darting to various weapons. Only Q actually produces something from his pockets – his smartphone. 

“Oh, shit.”

Eve immediately checks her own. “It’s not an international incident.”

Q blinks at the woman. “Oh, no, that’s my cat alarm.” 

“Cat alarm?” James echoes. “Have they got into your cardigan collection?”

He smirks when the question elicits a glare. “No, but they’re out of food.”

“Your phone tells you that?” Bill wonders, his brows furrows as he undoubtedly tries to imagine what this protocol entails. 

“Yes, their feeding station replenishes itself for the most part, but I still have to refill the perishable food myself. I’m sorry – I’ll be right back.”

Bill looks dazed, Eve fondly impressed. James smiles to himself at the way Q tries to solve everything with technology, his eyes tracing the man’s movement out of the flat. 

*

The first thing Q does once inside his own flat one floor below is fall back against the closed door and flatten his palms to the cool wood as he heaves a sigh. 

Linux meows from a metre away. 

“In a bit, darling.” 

There is a good reason why eighty-hour workweeks are more the norm than the exception for Q, why he only goes out when Eve makes (blackmails) him, or why he bloody well loved computers in the first place. 

Sure, the introverted hacker genius is the level-five of stereotypes, but Q likes it that way. He is perfectly fine barking orders at his minions or handling conferences at MI6, but there he is doing what he loves, what he is better at than anyone in the western hemisphere. 

Spending a couple of hours in the company of his colleagues as well as their best and also ruggedly handsome agent? Problematic. 

Too bad Eve knows his weak spots. 

Insistent pressure against his right leg pulls Q out of his head and back to a reality in which his cherished cats inadvertently saved him from seriously damaging his standing with Tanner (who is still oh-so-wrong about the superiority of simple baby monitors, but also still his superior, _bloody hell_ ).

“You should have seen him, though, Turing,” Q murmurs as he crouches down with an Applaws pouch next to the wet food dispenser. The water is rigged to the pipes, so he never needs to worry about them running out. “He looked really good. No suit. Slacks and a shirt, sleeves rolled up.”

Turing jumps onto his knees, then, as always choosing the moment Q is in the most uncomfortable position imaginable to decide he needs to be petted. 

And just like always, Q surrenders. He does shift into a kneeling stance, however – he is not in his twenties anymore – and shoots a quick text to Eve to explain his prolonged absence. 

Sure, he could always push the cat off his lap, but Turing has maybe one or two times a week that he actively seeks Q out to cuddle and he will be damned before he swaps the easy affection for the awkwardness that will surely greet him upon his return. 

He regrets that particular thought when Eve’s voice calls through the door to ask for a proper goodbye. Q gently swoops Turing up in his arms, hoping he won’t jump off immediately. Luck is on his side and the brown tabby rests his head on his shoulder and attaches his paws to his cardigan. He knows better than to use his claws, however. 

“Good night, Q,” Eve tells him before walking towards the lift with Tanner. 

The entire production might have been less awkward than Q anticipated – if it weren’t for the fact that 007 came down with their colleagues and is currently leaning against the doorframe. 

“We haven’t been introduced,” Bond says, smooth baritone a rumble deep in his chest. 

It takes Q a second to realise the man is talking to his cat. “Oh. This is Turing. Linux is, uh,” he turns, walking a few steps into his flat. Of course Bond follows, closing the door behind him, at least. 

And of course Linux takes to the agent like a duck to water. Or a tiger to a gazelle, maybe. 

Granted, there is some insecure padding, more sniffling, and an adorable amount of feline head tilting involved, but Bond knows enough to crouch down slowly as to avoid startling the cat and is rewarded for his elegance and consideration with a few gentle headbutts against his outstretched hands. 

At least Turing remains unimpressed. 

“What happened to his eye?”

“Her,” Q corrects. “This one’s a he. And I’m not sure. When I first saw her, it was worse, but they operated so now she can close the eye almost all the way.” 

The scar runs just past the inner edge of Linux’ left eye. Her lid is mangled and it looks perpetually inflamed even though it isn’t, but to Q she is still just as beautiful as any other kitten he saw back then. 

“They?”

“Battersea Dogs and Cats Home,” Q explains. “The ones who took in your puppy last year.”

Bond smiles at the memory while Q grimaces. Leave it to 007 to blow up a hideout of the number three on INTERPOL’s most wanted list but still find the time and energy to save the villain’s puppy. And bring it back to MI6 and into Q-Branch, on top of that. 

“They found a placement for him, last I heard.” 

“You followed up?”

Bond raises his head from where Linux is enjoying a thorough belly-rub to look at Q with a confused crease in his forehead. “Of course.”

Q finds he has nothing to say in response. Instead he watches 007’s fingers slide through Linux’ red fur for a little bit. 

“Where did you get him? Turing, was it?”

“Yes.” He scratches the cat in question behind the ears, chest swelling when Turing actually starts purring again. He stopped as soon as Bond crossed the threshold. “Found him on my way home from work four years ago, barely able to live without his mother’s milk but roaming the streets of London.”

“You weren’t Q then, were you?”

Q smirks at the less than subtle attempt at intelligence gathering. “No.” 

The corners of Bond’s mouth twitch, as if to prompt him to go on. The angle ensures that the light from the ceiling illuminates the man’s blue eyes perfectly. 

“Where were you before?” Bond tries again, doing his best to project an air of innocence as far as Q can tell. 

He shouldn’t. He really should not reveal anything. But 007 is the first person who actually had the gall to ask – everyone else on a lower step of the SIS hierarchy never dared, and the only people above Q in the pecking order already know all there is to his past. 

Should this ever return to bite him in the arse, Q vows to blame a combination of alcohol, good Thai food, steel-blue eyes, and two purring cats. 

“Here and there, really. Defence Intelligence, GCHQ… nothing that included flying,” he adds with a shudder. 

Unfortunately the gesture is too much for Turing, who gives an irritable meow and jumps to the floor, startling Linux from her Bond-induced haze. Two seconds later, a red streak darts past Q into the living area, chasing Turing up one of the cat trees dominating large parts of the living room. 

Bond considers him with the kind of focused interest usually reserved for new equipment. Not that Q cares much about being objectified right now – he doubts he could stay as calm and collected if he were any more to Bond than a puzzle to solve. 

“So you do have some practical experience. I was wondering.” 

Q is perfectly aware that it is a jibe aimed to provoke, but he bristles nonetheless. “I even hold a degree, 007.”

He yearns to add, _I graduated magna cum laude. The MOD wanted me enough to award me a full scholarship and clear my record,_ but refrains. How come Bond’s teasing comments always make him this defensive? It’s daft, he knows, but it has been an integral part of everyday life ever since the man made him feel like a naïve, clueless teenager again on a bench in the National Gallery, and not the leading expert on cyber security in Europe that he was. 

Thankfully – at least for the sake of Q’s sanity – the other man drops the issue. He finally rises from the floor, movements fluid and smooth enough to rival those of Q’s cats, and Q is proud when he is able to hold the flush at bay. 

“Enjoy the rest of your night, neighbour,” Bond says once he is out the door, somehow managing to endow the remark with a slightly sultry air. 

“I’m not the one who has dirty dishes waiting from him.”

“God invented dishwashers for a reason, Q.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you are going to actively place the glasses inside, locate the tabs, and switch the machine on?” 

All Bond does is sneer, the annoying bastard. “You could always build me an app for that.”

“It’s nothing as puerile as an app, 007,” Q snaps, shutting the door in the man’s smug face before he gets anymore riled up. 

“Goodnight, Q,” comes Bond’s voice through the door, because God forbid the last word not be his in any situation. 

After a steaming cup of tea and beating his standing record for hacking into the NSA, Q feels marginally better. Then his laptop pings with a new email, from 007 of all people. It contains a single photo of an active dishwasher. 

Q buries his face in his sheets, the fabric muffling his groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making good on the "MI6 family feels" tag here :) I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it!


	3. Clipped wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an awful week, and the only thing keeping me sane and smiling was writing this story and your kind words. So THANK YOU all for all the amazing feedback ♥
> 
> Also, the plot has grown a little (*glances-at-chapter-count*), so I’ve split chapter 3 into two parts. That means that this one is a little heavy on the lighter side, but I’m sure that we all could use a bit of that in light of what has been going on worldwide… I hope you’re all safe! 
> 
> PS: Another shout-out to [merlenhiver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merlenhiver) for being honest and telling me when something didn't work, then waiting patiently for me to make it better. And to [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) for catching all remaining inconsistencies!

Living in the same building as 007 does not go as Q expected. They don’t share awkward encounters in the lift, don’t run into each other in the hallways or the couple of times Q craves oxygen enough to brave a few street markets for second-hand books. 

Once he thought Bond might be in the vicinity because the back of his neck had started prickling, like it does sometimes when he feels one of the minions watching him, but a close inspection of his surroundings yielded no one was there. As a matter of fact, they barely see each other in person at the moment, mostly because James Bond is currently snatching up every mission he can and only a few of them require Q’s brand of hand-holding. 

Q oscillates between relief and disappointment until one Sunday morning in the middle of December, when a certain agent literally _knocks_ on his door at 7:58 AM. He is all too awake considering he only returned to English soil seven hours ago. 

Contrary to what Q suspected, the first words out of his mouth aren’t, “Can I borrow some dental floss because I am too manly to stay in medical unless it involves restraints and forced sedation?” 

The reality is much more surreal.

“Do you have flour?” 

“Pardon?” Q asks, thanking the universe that he is currently wearing one of his nicer pyjamas and the least nerdy Star Trek T-shirt he owns. 

“Flour,” Bond repeats, completely deadpan. “It’s a white powder derived from grains, sometimes used for baking.”

“You bake?” 

The surprise in his voice is reason enough to make the other man grin. “Yes, Q, I bake.”

“Why?” Q is still two cups of tea short to master this conversation with anything approaching eloquence.

Which Bond apparently finds rather amusing. “The person I was assigned during Secret Santa likes Snowy Owl Christmas Tree biscuits.” 

Q blinks. “I suppose that is a reference of some kind?”

“From some bake show.” Bond tries to underscore this with a nonchalant shrug but misses by a considerable margin. 

“The amount of energy and research you put into this is commendable.”

“Says the man who dedicated part of our servers to the lottery.” 

“That’s just a rumour,” Q attempts – and fails – to deflect. 

“Eve showed me the email you sent Tanner that year. It was one notch above begging.”

“Well, Tanner was still using a hat with bloody paper slips in the twenty-first century!” Q scoffs. “Pardon me for optimising the process.”

He has to suppress a shudder at the memory. Really, devising a programme to handle the Secret Santa Protocol was self-defence. 

The protocol itself is one of the least dangerous Christmas traditions at MI6. Then again, nothing can really compete with a ragtag group of engineers finding ways to turn holiday decorations into a science fair. Last year, two people slipped and broke something since someone thought it would be terrific to develop a gun that could reach absolute zero. This year it is an indoor snow canon. Q has yet to find a way to shield himself from artificial snow in inopportune places. 

At least he knows how to circumvent all fifty-seven mistletoes in the tower. 

Secret Santa, while a tad silly, is at least docile. And even though no grand prize awaits those who figure out who their Santa is, the majority of the staff goes positively mental about it. 

Not Q, though. 

While he is not exempt from participating, he is perfectly capable of manipulating the process as to avoid any additional migraine-inducing factors. Dealing with a heightened threat level and the general madness of international intelligence gathering is bad enough without adding difficult-to-buy-for Secret Santa victims to the mix. 

This year, however, Q simply could not resist. Not when James Bond practically _wrote_ him a personalised wish list during his first medical back in October. 

Being the quartermaster provides him with ample power he can abuse to doctor CCTV feeds, erasing his presence from the employee gym changing rooms after delivering the first small parcel (handcuffs with obnoxious leopard-patterned fur because Q thought any other ‘toys’ would cross a line in terms of propriety). He has also been known to switch traffic lights to green on Bond’s way home after particularly exhausting missions this month. 

Yes, outside of ski lifts and without large walls of muscle tailing him, Q actually makes a decent operative. 

“So, do you have flour?” 

Oh right, Bond is still at his door. Q exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I have no idea. Hang on.”

He pads back into this flat, unsurprised when once again, 007 simply follows. Both Turing and Linux are dead to the world, curled up on the sofa to Q’s left and not even looking up as he ambles past them into the kitchen. He spares a thought to the thoroughly chaotic state this space is in – tools and scraps of metal strewn across the dinner table and the kitchen island, half-built Christmas presents taking form but still unfinished. Well, he still has nine days left. 

Q rummages through his scarcely stocked cupboards and no one is more surprised than him that he emerges victorious. 

When he turns back around to hand the package of flour over to Bond, the man is still inspecting Q’s flat as if it were a book holding more intel on its inhabitant. Q wonders what the agent sees, then quickly stifles that train of thought.

Instead he asks, “Why didn’t you buy flour yourself when you planned on baking? Why not wait until tomorrow?”

At that, Bond actually grimaces. “009 stole the last batch before my Secret Santa got them.”

Q sneers. “Revenge is sweet. You got off lightly, though – a few biscuits versus a three-million-pound prototype vehicle?”

It seems as if Bond wants to argue, presumably citing something like human decency and invoking the Christmas spirit, but he stops himself before he voices his thoughts. 

“Thank you, neighbour,” is what he settles on, leading the way back to the front door. 

Q waits for the other shoe to hit the floor, because surely 007 did not just drop by to ask for flour… He even _knocked_ , which is something Q did not expect. There is a perfectly good balcony for Bond to swing himself down from, after all. 

Or maybe – oh yes, the man’s movements are a little stiff. 

“How are your ribs?” Q asks before he remembers that he had nothing to do with Bond’s latest mission and should technically not actually know about the injuries the man sustained. 

Bond’s expression is a blend of being amused and intrigued “Keeping tabs on me?”

“As the person in charge of your equipment, I make a point of checking up on any and all active missions, 007,” Q rushes to explain in his most authoritative tone. It might work better if he were not currently sporting clothing with a spaceship on it. 

“And here I thought I was special.”

“You make that sound like it would be a compliment.”

“Because it is.” Bond smiles, his eyes darting down Q’s body and up again. “Don’t do too much damage. Or have another cup first, at least.” 

Then he walks off. Q stares after him for five full seconds before he identifies the comment as a call back to what he said during their first meeting, about the damage he can do in his pyjamas…

Well, the delay of his higher brain-functions might be due to the sight of Bond’s backside covered by obviously much loved since well-worn trousers, so Q thinks he should be excused. 

It is only when the lock clicks shut and the security measures activate that he realises Bond side-stepped the question. 

“Shit,” Q says. There goes his confidence regarding his interpersonal communication skills again. 

On the sofa, two pairs of ears twitch and Turing blinks his eyes open. 

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Q soothes them, not walking over to caress them because that would only end in claw marks on his forearms. “But Bond is getting rather reckless, isn’t he?”

With 007 being 007, his measures of meeting mission requirements usually tend to be on a more exciting end of the spectrum, so it took Q three entire missions post-Spectre to see the pattern as one. Now, however, it is blatantly obvious – James Bond is taking audacity to an entirely new level. 

Q has a feeling this has something to do with the change in Bond’s gait and how he does everything in his power to avoid more than two or three days of downtime between assignments. Q would say something if he thought this is all part of a grand spiralling symphony of self-destruction on Bond’s part, yet the man seems… happy. Happier, maybe. Or settled, at least. As though he not only found his place in the world, but accepted and embraced it. 

Be that as it may. Q vows to keep an eye on the situation – it’s the least a Secret Santa can do. 

*

007’s next mission takes him to India, for the least festive reason imaginable. 

One of the encrypted folders Klaus Blofeld left for Q to crack contained bits and pieces about a human trafficking ring specialising in children. When it first dawned on him what he was decrypting, Q immediately rushed to the nearest bathroom. Then he didn’t leave his computer until he had found all there was to find on those despicable bastards, uncovering the workings of a much larger crime syndicate with their fingers in several different pots. Bond’s job now is to find out where the leaders are going to meet, bug the place, and let the appropriate international agencies handle the rest. 

All the odder is the cheerful atmosphere that greets Q one week before Christmas Eve as he enters Q-Branch late that night. 

“R? What’s going on?” he directs at his second-in-command, who is actually called Naylaa and had the pleasure of a night shift of Bond-minding. 

The woman grins at him, smoothing down a corner of her hijab. “007 got the details for the meet.”

Q waits. R’s grin widens. It’s a well-established game they play, seeing whether it is Q’s curiosity or R’s excitement that breaks the silence first. 

“And?” Q prompts, since curiosity has always been his mortal sin.

“He took the location off his contact.”

“The survivor who got out?” 

R nods, but with a meaningful twinkle in her eye. Q connects the dots with a groan. 

“Bond slept with him, didn’t he?” 

“Yes – and the pot was particularly large this time around.”

“Well, most people in this branch are capable of calculating probabilities derived from 007’s past behaviour. His rebound being female was statistically more likely.”

“And yet you placed third, sir.”

Now it is Q’s turn to grin. “Put it in the Box.”

“You got it, boss!” 

Some might consider it bad taste, placing a wager on when 007 next seduces a mark or a contact, yet they have a tally going for every Double-oh agent and it is only one of many betting pools in existence. 

Endorsing frivolous things like this constitutes Q’s answer to the pressure of their jobs, the constant need for secrecy, the lack of spare time, and the at time dire context of their tasks. The betting culture has been an integral part of MI6 long before Q joined the agency, though all his winnings are always immediately rerouted to the Box, a hybrid of swear jar and money bank. Q has yet to penetrate the system of rules in place that makes others cough up a few quid at regular intervals, but at least it keeps the Box full and the pizza during Hackathons paid for. 

“Is MTAC ready?” Q asks after setting his bag down in his office. 

R nods. “They’re only waiting for Grimes from the FBI and you, sir.”

 _Colour me surprised._ When are they not waiting for their American colleagues? “I shan’t be the last, then.”

MTAC, or Multiple Threat Alert Centre, is the official title for the large videoconference room near M’s office and serves as a closed-off space for any larger, joint operation between the alphabeticals of the world.

Today this involves MI6, the FBI, INTERPOL and the Indian Ministry of Home Affairs, with Q taking point. 

“Good morning, Q,” Bond greets him as he signs on, sounding sated and content. The tone does things to Q’s imagination that are by no means appropriate for the situation. 

“Nice to know your inner clock is already on UTC, 007.”

“I apologise if the scum of this world robs you of your beauty sleep,” Bond teases, and Q chuckles as he watches Agent Grimes’ eyebrows rise to meet his hairline. 

Apart from a quip here and there, Bond behaves himself as he infiltrates the building complex, a recently abandoned office tower scheduled for demolition soon. Too bad Q was too busy the day before, making sure 004 got out of Gaza unscathed, or he might have taken over guiding Bond to his contact and made the man stop by a street market and pick him up a pound or two of chai tea. The one 003 brought back with her six months ago is almost depleted. 

Sadly, Bond’s stellar conduct does not last. 

“Targets approaching, 007,” Q hisses even before his Indian contact is finished explaining what the surveillance feed shows. “007, abort!”

“Hold on.”

“007, if you blow this mission I will personally castrate you.”

“And I’ll let you,” Bond grunts, sounding like he is climbing. “If I leave and they’re meeting in a room I haven’t bugged, we’re equally buggered.”

“And if they stumble upon a foreign operative –”

“I know. Mazel tov.” 

The feed cuts off. Q heaves a sigh. 

“What was that?” Grimes snaps, his features distorted in anger. 

“A code word. Meaning 007 is going dark to avoid detection and will do everything in his power to complete the mission.”

“Son of a bitch,” the American curses, and the remaining participants echo his sentiment in less vulgar terms. 

Q stands his ground and defends Bond’s (admittedly risky) actions, hoping that luck will be on their side and he will get to keep his job. He likes his job. 

A _click_ sounds over the channels as the planted bugs switch on. Q allows the smug grin to show on the conference feed. Bond was successful. 

*

Q’s resulting good mood persists for another few hours. Even the baffling photographs 002 sends from Brazil cannot dampen it, despite the frustrating nature of finding no match in any database for the graffiti left behind at the flat of one of 002’s marks. 

Fed up, Q tosses the tablet onto his desk with maybe a little more force than advisable. Just then, Nicolas steps into the room, bearing a pile of papers that looks like they need Q’s signature. He has half a mind to ignore their Archive and File Manager. Or maybe it’s time to finally teach the bloke how to forge his signature. 

“Sir? Everything all right?” 

“Just a few too many dead ends.”

Nicolas squints at the pictures, visible from his position near the door. “Are those wings?”

“Yes. And that’s all we know so far.” Q observes how Nicolas’ eyes light up a little. “Think you could find something in the archives?” Since for reasons unfathomable for Q, there are still records at MI6 awaiting digitalisation. 

“I can try, sir.”

Q swaps the pictures for the pile of papers and promises to sign them as soon as possible, knowing that Nicolas will be back in an hour to remind him once again. What can he say, mapping out how to reprimand 007 for his recklessness, regardless of the eventually positive outcome of his mission, is a much nicer way to spend his time. 

One of these days the man’s disregard for danger is going to cost them dearly, and Q has to get ahead of this, he really must. 

Yet when he collects his mail from the concierge as he gets home eighteen hours later, there is a package waiting for him, addressed to the same alias used on Bond’s postcards. 

And if Q does not even make it into his living room before tearing open the parcel, well, then that is his cross to bear. 

“That tool,” he mutters as he flips the abhorrently corny card to read the inscription. It consists of nothing but a single sentence in Bond’s neat handwriting. 

_I noticed you’re running low._

Confused, Q removes the cheap bunched-up paper hiding the rest of the parcel’s contents, hands pausing when he sees the mix of leaves and herbs through the transparent packaging. 

_But how –?_

Q’s glance falls on the row of glass jars next to his kettle on the kitchen counter. One holds his everyday tea, the other a milder blend, the third what remains of the Indian chai 003 brought him. Bond must have noticed while Q was rummaging through his cabinets. 

Very well, then. It’s not like a reprimand ever helped where 007 is concerned. 

Smiling to himself, Q flicks the kettle on. 

*

A shrill ringing shocks Q into wakefulness. He wants nothing more than to groan into the unfamiliar sheets and turn around again, but this is the emergency line from the office, meaning something truly abhorrent is happening that needs Q’s brand of expertise right this second. 

He brings up his left hand to rub the sleep from his eyes while his right is fumbling for his phone which he remembers placing on the side table of the sofa in his parents' living room last night when he arrived. 

Bugger, his back aches… And to think playing the nice, older brother and letting Jessica have their Ma and Ta’s guest room seemed like such good idea the night before. At least they are retiring soon and Q can finally force them into the age-appropriate house with a stairlift he’s been threatening them with. 

Actually hitting the ‘accept’ button on his screen in his tired state and without his glasses is a fifty-fifty chance, yet Q manages. Must be a Christmas miracle. Considering it is Christmas Day – 4:56AM, to be precise – Q will take what he can get. 

“Q.”

“We lost him.” R’s tone is clipped, her voice terser than he has ever heard it. 

“Hang on, I’ll switch to the headset.” Q quickly retrieves it from its proper place in his bag and clips it on his ear, then pulls his computer into his lap. “I’m set. Walk me through it.”

R launches into a brief blow-by-blow analysis, recounting how 007 has travelled to apprehend a group of black market uranium dealers led by a self-proclaimed “General”. The original tip came from the intel gathered in India and it was decided that MI6 handle this particular problem. 

“But then the General’s daughter revealed she’s long ago switched sides and there was a shoot-out. One of the projectiles must have damaged the coolant system of the facility and…”

Q barely dares to breathe, let alone type another command into his keyboard. “What?”

“It looks like a meltdown is imminent.”

“Shit. Where the hell is Bond?”

There is a split second of silence before R admits, “He went against my direct orders and cut the connection.”

Of course he did. 

“I told him to abort,” R continues. “A Special Forces team is thirty-two minutes out and will be able to contain the meltdown, but 007 insisted he go back.”

Q grumbles as he slips into the secure agency network. 007 going dark is nothing new, yet him doing so against explicit orders usually goes hand in hand with a daredevil-type of alternative route to the extraction point. There is also usually a woman involved. 

“Let me guess – the General is still alive and his daughter’s inside the facility.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“All right, I’m live. Q taking over, authorisation code Delta-Two-Gamma-Echo.”

“Accepted. R signing off.” A beat. “I apologise, sir. He wouldn’t listen.”

“R, be glad you aren’t the one who finally manages to get the bastard to obey every time we order him to stand down, since if you were I’d have long since cuffed you to a desk and never let you out of the office.”

His second-in-command barks a bitter laugh at that. She knows better than to think Q is joking. 

Q blocks out everything, from the decorated Christmas tree in the corner on his left to the thoughts about the skeleton crew of Q-Branch gathering around the screens at MI6 to watch him work – which they are undoubtedly doing. He strong-arms his way into the illegal nuclear facility’s system and sure, there is James Bond running hand in hand with a curvy lass with a mane of dark hair on the black and white CCTV feed. 

He follows their path for half a minute until they literally collide with a door that is electronically locked. Bond glances up at the camera above him – the bleeding gall of that man, _really_ – as if Q being there to help him out of this particular tight spot is the fifth law of thermodynamics, universal and absolute. 

With no other means of communication left, Q moves the camera Bond is staring at and points it into the opposite direction. At least Bond follows after only a hint of confusion, then lets himself be guided by Q’s improvised sign posts. 

Bond narrows his eyes at the nearest lens as soon as he recognises the control room Q directed him to, but Q has no time to explain. He hijacks the room’s speaker system and growls, “Get over here and do exactly as I tell you.”

A flicker across its screen identifies the computer Q is referring to. Bond moves a split second later while his companion is still inspecting the ceiling, presumably wondering where the voice came from. She does not panic, however. She is also wearing combat boots and military-style trousers instead of the heels, so Q fathoms she is one of the more intelligent damsels 007 has stumbled upon in his career. 

“Type in the following,” Q instructs, then walks Bond through rebooting the coolant without triggering a facility-wide lockdown that would prevent their Special Forces team from gaining access and might also kill Bond and his bird in the process due to the radioactive waste flooding the control room. 

It’s a bloody close call. 

For a moment there Q feared that MI6’s best agent would forever be but a treasured memory. Somehow, though, Bond manages to cock up neither the reboot nor the rerouting of the power supply and with a happy _ping_ the display on the screen lights up in a friendly green. 

Bond’s body visibly slumps deeper into the chair. The damsel rushes to his side, looking equally relieved. 

“007,” Q barks through the speakers. “Your extraction time is ten hundred hours local time at the specified location. Be one minute late and the cargo plane leaves without you. Report to my office the very moment you arrive in London and not one second later. Understood?”

“Loud and clear,” Bond confirms. There is a smile playing about his lips and Q terminates the connection so he can shout the string of expletives at the screen without losing face. 

He allows himself half a minute before he unmutes the headset and returns to the laptop screen to have R establish a connection with the folks from Special Forces. He oversees the clean-up, alternating between giving orders about what to do with the bodies and handling the fallout on R’s end. 

“This could’ve been so bad,” R murmurs when they are finally done. 

“Well, worst case scenario – reactor breach, nuclear meltdown. The location is remote enough to keep direct exposure to a minimum and the uranium wouldn’t have been enough to completely upend the climate…”

“I admire your sunny optimism, boss.”

Q would laugh but he is still too highly strung. They say goodbye and he massages his temples, hoping to keep the migraine at bay. 

“Damn, Kian…” 

Q startles violently, head snapping up so hard it might give him whiplash. His eyes land on his sister standing between the side of the sofa and the door, once again in a pair of leggings and one of their mother’s handmade jumpers, her dark hair falling onto her shoulders freely. 

“Jessica? What –” he begins, but as his vision clears and he gradually returns from his adrenaline high, he notices that the sun has gone up. 

“Ta’s cooking breakfast, if you’re interested?”

The idea of food and above all _tea_ has Q scramble off the couch, almost tripping over his duffel bag as he tries to locate his own jumper. Thus armed against the chill that never seems to leave his parents’ flat, Q steps around the sofa (sparing another thought to his aching back) and claims a chair at the table. His father, a heavy-set man with a cheerful predisposition that somehow skipped Q and concentrated on his younger sister instead, is at the stove, preparing Jess’ egg white omelette with green and red peppers and beans and toast for the rest of them. 

“I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“Don’t worry about it, lovely,” his mother says immediately. “Tea?”

“God, yes!”

“Kian.” 

Oh, right. With how rarely he sees his family, he tends to forget how devoutly religious they are. Considering his mothers’ lessons about the difference between right and wrong are probably what determined which side of the law Q ended up on, he might do well to recall not to take the Lord’s name in vain. “Sorry. But I’ve been handling self-important boffins with a severe case of testosterone poisoning for the past three hours.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad, deary.”

“It was, Ma, it really was,” Jess chimes in. “This bloke almost caused a nuclear meltdown, from what I heard.”

Even his father turns around at that. “She’s pulling our leg, eh?”

“Wish she were,” Q says, snatching the large mug of Earl Grey from his mothers’ fingers and downing half of it in one large gulp. 

He also forgot how genuinely _nice_ it is to be able to talk vaguely about his job with people that are not in any way involved in said job. Filling in his family was the only stipulation Q had when the former M began courting him, and she finally agreed after his predecessor was killed in the explosion. Before, Q always had to lie. Well, he still has to do that, but now he is at least allowed to provide them with a general idea the two or three times a year he actually manages to meet with them. M made them sign approximately five hundred pages of paperwork that included everything from a gagging order to NDRs, though Q knows his family would never ever say anything. 

They owe him too much to jeopardise his career, Jess especially.

“So,” the woman in question says, pushing her empty plate away from her. “Is this the same self-important tosser who made you get on a plane?”

Q nods gravely, mood clouding again at the thought of that daft ski resort. “Afraid so. Bane of my existence.”

His mother snorts as she gathers the dirty dishes, stacking them high in one hand without even looking like Q has seen her do at the restaurant she works. “Stop being so dramatic, Kian.”

Jess ignores her. “You planning revenge yet? Change his Netflix password? Because that’s just mean.” 

“You deserved it. Git,” he adds, feeling sentimental. 

“Wanker,” comes the immediate response. 

“Hush, both of you,” their father chides, then ushers them into the living room where they quickly tidy up before flocking around the Christmas tree and exchanging presents. Q finished his with two hours to spare before he had to dive into the holiday rush on the tube. 

They make it through all the gifts and all the hugs and thank you’s before Q’s phone rings again, M’s number flashing across the screen. Q excuses himself into the kitchen and provides the requested update as levelly as he is capable of, tracing the battered old rainbow flag magnet on the refrigerator with his index finger. It was a birthday present from Jess right after he came out. 

The rainbow cardigan. Q practically forgot about it during the chaos. Too bad the package has already been delivered to Bond, even when the man is not home. Q could steal it from the concierge, but that would require skipping out on Christmas dinner and attending Jess’ performance with her new ballet company, and he is not that intent on denying Bond his final Secret Santa gift. 

“Have you said anything about punishment, Q?” M asks, sounding as beat as he feels. Or maybe he is just tired from spending the holidays with his father. According to Eve, it borders on an Olympic sport. 

“I only told him to report to my office. Do you want me to reroute him to you?”

“Please, no. The last thing I need is dealing with a Double-oh agent coming down from an adrenaline high like that. Handle him, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now go, enjoy the time with your family, Q. You deserve it.”

“You as well, sir.”

“I’m starting to doubt the quality of my karma,” M jokes, then ends the call. For all the arguing he did when taking over MI6 about sharing sensitive government secrets with untrained civilians no matter how many papers they sign, Mallory has become almost supportive. Maybe because he saw how much better Bill fared after his wife was granted the same privilege as Q’s parents and sister. Good thing, too, since it is only a matter of time before Sam proposes – or so Q thinks with an eye on the betting pool – and Eve will ask for a similar deal.

“You still here, brother?”

“I have yet to replicate the beaming process.”

“Oh, shut up, you. That your boss? He wants you back today?”

Q grins. “I’m not missing your performance, Jess. It’s my one chance a year to see you do what you love. I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule our afternoon about town, though.”

“Nah, we can do that the day after tomorrow. No problem. You gotta go back and tear that plonker a new one?”

It is marvellous how fast Jess reverts back to swearing once they are all together again. Q is glad he left that behind with his criminal record. 

“In less crude terms, but yes. He won’t be back until tomorrow. Time zones, you know.”

“So he’s just kicking back in a hotel after what he did?”

“With a pretty bird to warm his sheets, too.”

“For real?”

“Last I checked they both arrived at the nearest hotel. Only one room charged to the card.”

Even to his own ears, his tone sounds hollow. Jessica has clearly picked up on it as well and narrows her eyes at him. _Damn._

“You’re jealous.”

Q says nothing. 

“You’re bleeding jealous! After all the bloke’s done?”

“It’s nothing. This is a phase everyone goes through.” 

“What?”

“At work. It’s a rite of passage, you could say.”

“Doesn’t make you any happier, though.”

“At least I get to shout at him tomorrow.”

The deflection works and Jess starts teasing him about being the boss, something he could quote back at her verbatim if she asked after listening to it the past two Christmases as well. Q indulges her. He only sees her once a year, given how she spends most of her time in Dublin with the ballet, so he needs to get his fix of annoying sibling when he can. 

He meets his mother’s eyes over Jess’ shoulder and has to stifle a laugh, the anger from this morning put on hold for the rest of the day. 

*

The swagger to his step as he enters MI6 is partially forced. James pretends as if he isn’t worried about the repercussions of his actions, yet a wave of red traffic lights on his way into town were enough to line his muscles with trepidation. 

It only worsens when he enters the building. 

The atmosphere is bleak, air ripe enough with tension that it might as well be palpable. James pauses in front of the doors to the first level of Q-Branch before the motion sensor detects him, some of his elation at the successful mission dwindling. 

He only knows of two occasions that left a similar mood in their wake, and none of them were pleasant for the operative involved. Q, despite his arrogance (or maybe because of it), is a stellar boss – he is fair in a way very few leaders are, fostering a culture of growth and self-development instead of reprimand and negative feedback. 

The man prefers a tone of quiet disappointment to explosive releases of emotion - hell, for a time there James wondered if the MOD had succeeded in creating an AI and planted it at MI6 for testing - so when Q raises his voice, it leaves an impression.

Unfortunately he has only heard tales of both instances, not born witness, and James wishes once again that Q had left the CCTV footage of both instances intact. 

Three minutes later, he regrets his foolish thought. 

“Wipe that bloody grin off your face, 007; this is nothing to be proud of,” Q honest-to-God growls at him. “You not only disobeyed a direct order from your supervisor, you also went against the mission brief signed off on by the SIS. And then, because you haven't bollocksed everything up _enough_ when one of your bullets disabled the coolant system, you had to run back and risk your life along with a quarter million pound worth of equipment and for what, 007?”

Q's chest is heaving and his shoulders are tense, yet otherwise he is perfectly still. A hush has fallen over the skeleton crew scattered across the room, but none of them is pretending to be working, all eyes fixed on their furious leader. 

James finds his throat dry when he replies, “For an innocent bystander.” 

Q's features twist into a snarl as he points towards the nearest screen that displays nothing James doesn't already know. She was very honest with him back at the hotel before they parted ways. 

“No, 007 – for the daughter of a criminal who has spent twenty-three years of her life helping her father and only recently had a change of heart. I don't care if saving someone's life is your preferred form of foreplay, _agent_ , but if you go against a direct order like that ever again, no matter how noble your motivations, we will give you up without a second’s hesitation and you can spend the last painful weeks of your life evading every gun for hire on the planet that is going to be after you.” 

“She would have died!” James protests, louder than he planned. This side of his quartermaster is more unsettling to witness than he expected. 

“And that would have been on us! That is why there is a command structure, and exactly why you are out there and _not_ in a position to make these calls.” 

James opens his mouth to argue further, because his instincts are good and he has made his fair share of difficult calls in the field without his employer to hold his hand, but Q’s glare cuts him off before his voice does. 

“Shut up,” Q snaps with a chilling air of finality. “Go to medical, then go home. I'll let you know how long you are suspended when I am less likely to transfer all your savings to the human rights campaign and put your car on eBay.” 

James's feet move before his mind gave them permission to beat a retreat. It is only in the elevator that he releases a breath he hadn't realised he has been holding. 

He can count the times anyone or anything has rendered him speechless on two hands. This was number seven. He hasn't felt this gobsmacked since... 

Well. Since Vesper. 

James is not sure what to do with that information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have now fully entered the slow build tag =) 
> 
> So I’ve discovered that Q’s name and background is a big point of contention within fandom with everyone having their own preferred headcanon. Which is why I never mentioned his real name in ["Loyal in Adversity"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3939010/chapters/8826958), my Bondlock AU, but this story needed something different. Somehow, this happened. And we are going to hear more about them in future chapters :)
> 
> Hearing what you all think is incredibly inspirational and I'm sure there'll be some who aren't as on board with Q's family, but if so, please be polite and constructive about it?
> 
> EDIT 16-11-2015: _Guys._ 500 kudos. I'm pinching myself because I think I'm dreaming... Thank you all!!!


	4. House of cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently there are people out there who don’t kiss cats on their foreheads (*glances-at-merlenhiver*), so I should note that it’s totally a thing ;)
> 
> I am genuinely proud of this chapter and still in absolute _awe_ of the reaction this fic is receiving. Please take this lengthy update as an excitement-filled thank you!

“You, James,” Eve announces the moment James has opened his front door, “are going to spend your four-week-long suspension as Q-Branch’s exclusive beta testing slave.”

He blinks. “Why are _you_ telling me this?” 

One side of her mouth twitches as if she heard the ‘and not Q’ that James’s mind added. “Because you interrupted his holiday, to which he’s returned. He left instructions with his second-in-command so you’ll be well taken care of for the first two days.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Could be worse,” she argues. “M could’ve just made you stay home for a month.”

“He should know better.”

“He does; thus your new position.” 

It is probably his own fault, too – James and boredom do not mix well. During his last suspension, approximately a year after Skyfall, he broke into Q-Branch on a Sunday and subsequently went through every available prototype in sight. The unsuspecting employees stuck with the weekend shift were easily intimidated into obeying James's every whim and by the time either Mallory or Q noticed what was going on, he had already provided so much constructive feedback that neither of them could fault him for his actions. Being the longest serving Double-oh agent along with his background in the military means he has years and years of experience to draw from, after all. 

“You checked on Turing and Linux.” 

Eve pauses, her eyes following James’s gaze to the hem of her blouse. It is covered with red hair. 

“I usually do. Thought I’d bring you the good news to make sure you’re at work bright and early tomorrow.”

She sounds disproportionally chipper at the prospect, like she is privy to information the rest of the world has yet to discover.

This does not bode well, James decides. 

*

His instincts don’t prove wrong. But then again, they don’t prove particularly right either. 

Q is still in a strop when he returns from wherever genius hackers go during Christmas, and the banter that usually flows so easily between them has become strained. James loathes it. On New Years Eve, while he is splayed out on his sofa with the next book on his ‘to read’ pile and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, he extends a peace offering in the form of another picture attachment that he mails to Q. It shows James wearing the (illegally comfortable) cardigan he found in his mail when he came home. He even adds ‘Happy New Year’. 

The next day, Q’s eyes have softened again and James breathes more easily. 

Well, if he isn’t running about Q-Branch. 

There is nothing like a group of engineers half your age – if that – shooing you about the lower levels of the CNS Tower for ten, twelve hours a day to ensure you feel every year on your shoulder, every scar you received, every drink you had. In retaliation James doles out the most trenchant criticism he is capable of without being malicious when writing up his reports for the scientists, which all land on Q’s desk. 

He is putting the final touch to a scathing report on Yeun's frankly mental idea of "revolutionary body armour" when 009 saunters into the room, his smile as broad as his Welsh accent as he greets R. He continues to the other end of the rectangular room, aiming for Q's workstation. 

The quartermaster, standing rather than sitting to be free to move between the four computers in front of him, is ‘wired in’, solving a problem that left the blokes from IT baffled. It is a peculiar expression that took James a few instances to pin down, yet now he has no trouble spotting it. 

Grabbing Q's attention when this focused is close to impossible. James has seen minions delivering refills of Earl Grey, provide entire sandwiches or - in R’s case - get three signatures without any indication that the young man noticed he even paused to breathe. 

It's fascinating to say the least. 

What is ever more fascinating is that no matter how focused Q is on anything, be it checking schematics or guiding agents through missions, he always seems to be aware of James's position in the room. 

Now 009, James notes with glee, does not evoke the same effect. 

The tall man with the long, wavy hair comes to a stop on Q's right. He says something but it is too far away for James to catch. Seizing the chance, James picks up the tablet and saves his file as he crosses the space between his makeshift desk and Q's. The only sign his presence has been noted is a quick raise of a finger from Q, but it is enough for James to sneer at his fellow Double-oh who has been waiting in vain for a full minute.

Rhys smiles back, unperturbed. "Well, if it isn't Double-oh-Fail. Heard you've changed careers from spy to guinea pig." 

"Yes, I'm test-driving my new car." 

The other man’s expression doesn’t falter. "You do that. I'm going to be en la playa de Carmen cerca de Cancún, convincing everyone I'm el nuevo jefe." 

_Arrogant bastard._

009 speaks three languages more than James (Welsh, Portuguese, and Korean), but not only that: he also has to rub it in every time they cross paths. Good thing that James has a few aces up his sleeves. 

"That's nice, Rhys. Oh, and tell your ex-wife her new haircut looks lovely." 

Predictably, 009 scowls. Shannon, said ex, works in MI6's PR department and has a high enough security clearance to be aware of her husband’s profession. In James’s defence, he had no idea the attractive redhead was Rhys’s recently divorced wife when he met her while out on the pull. 

Ever since he found out, however, James has missed no opportunity to mention it. 

"Why don't you tell her yourself?” 009’s green eyes have hardened despite his obvious effort to keep his body language nonchalant. “Or are you feeling your age?" 

James opens his mouth for a rebuff - even though that jibe hit a little too close to home - when he registers a movement out of the corner of his eye. 

He and 009 both turn towards Q... Who is holding up a fifteen-centimetre ruler, eyebrows raised. 

"I suggest you measure now, gentlemen; put us all out of our misery," he says, voice perfectly deadpan. “Or was I too optimistic? I’m sure R&D is hiding a smaller one somewhere.” 

James can’t help but chuckle, especially given how chastised his colleague looks. 

“009, I presume you’re here for these?” Q continues, placing the ruler back in the neatly organised penholder set and retrieving an envelope from a stack of papers on his far left. “Passport, credit cards, all in there. Tickets and reference numbers for the hotel have already been uploaded to your tablet. Tess is going to equip you.” 

A wave of his hand and the minion in question appears. Tess is the same small, plumb woman with the asexuality flag wrapped around her workstation who spent the third day of James’s suspension making him shoot a _crossbow_ of all things for hours on end. She leads 009 off with a twinkle in her eyes as if she heard the entire conversation perfectly. 

James smirks after them until Q clears his throat. He pushes the report file onto the nearest tablet and waits patiently as Q begins to read, eyes darting up at regular intervals until even Q cannot keep the exasperation off his features. 

“This is getting ridiculous, 007,” he says. “You don’t have to be mean about it.”

“Why don’t you try on that unyielding Kevlar armour?”

“It’s not Kevlar,” Q argues. “That’s the whole point. It’s a polyaramid, rather interesting, actually –”

“It’s darn uncomfortable, that’s what it is.”

Q brings his hand up to adjust his glasses that have slid down his nose. “Well, then you’ll be happy to hear Dr Frost is ready for a follow-up test.”

James groans, earning himself a quizzical expression that he waves off. He is not going to admit to Q that climbing glass walls using special gloves and shoes for five hours is _marginally_ exhausting, even for a man of James’s stamina. 

A flick of his wrist has James fall into step next to Q as the man crosses the main room and passes by the individual offices on his way to the lift, since God forbid James be equipped with an access code to Dr Charlotte Frost’s über-classified research in neuroresponsive adhesive technology. 

Through the open door of the last room, James catches a glimpse of by now familiar wings, the original picture from two weeks ago adorning the smartboard covering an entire office wall with digital lines connecting it to other intel. 

“Still no luck?” James asks. 

It only takes Q half a second to understand what he is referring to, then his expression clouds over. “No. No matches in anything even remotely religious; no organisation laying claim to the symbol or the actions associated with it… Right now it’s nothing but a wild goose chase.”

“Wild angel chase, more likely.”

Q’s brow unfurrows as he snorts. The lift arrives and once inside, Q leans in for a quick retinal scan before pushing the button to one of the restricted floors. 

“I thought cheap puns were beneath you, 007.” 

“They are,” James agrees, standing a little closer than necessary in the spacious cubicle. “Which is why I didn’t point out that you chose the right ruler the first time around.”

He timed it to coincide with the _ping_ of their arrival, enabling him to step out of the cart smoothly while Q splutters. How a man wielding as much power as this one can still be so easily flustered will forever baffle James. 

He quirks an expectant eyebrow until Q follows, the faintest blush dusting his cheeks yet in no way curtailing his snarky reply. 

“Too bad M declined my application for a study on testosterone poisoning in Double-oh agents from prolonged alpha male posturing. I’m sure my findings would have been illuminating.”

“I’m curious – how would the test series look like in an experiment like that?”

Q makes to reply just as they reach the door to Dr Frost’s realm, but a figure rounding the corner spots them first and puts their conversation on halt by calling out, “There you are, Mr Durden!”

James’s hand darts to his weapon before he remembers he is not carrying it right now. Q acknowledges the person with a brief nod, which puts James somewhat at ease even if it does nothing to quench his curiosity. 

Too bad Q shoos him through the door with an, “I’ll be back to collect you once Charlotte is done with you” before the other man – average height, average build, pen-pusher suit, in desperate need of a new hair dresser and a new taste in shoes – is able to reach them.

It would not take a spy to conclude Q does not want James anywhere near them when he and the other bloke talk. The quartermaster should know better by now than to count on James’s respect for privacy. He walks away from the door with heavy steps, then retraces them as quietly as possible. The misty glass may be bulletproof but it is a far cry from soundproof. 

“Fight Club? Really?” Q’s voice, trying to sound annoyed but with a sliver of amusement.

“Relax, Q, we’ve got three hundred fifty thousand people with that name in the Greater London area alone.”

“Always using fictional character names is a pattern, Daryl; something we wish to avoid.”

“We aren’t, though, just half the name. I put your given name as ‘Jack’. No one’s going to figure it out, mate.”

Whatever this Daryl is using the alias for, presumably his payslip, James is certain that ‘Jack Durden’ is not the most secure direction to go. 

Apparently, Q agrees. “I’ll remind you of that when I’m being waterboarded by terrorists.” 

“Technically, you won’t be able to speak when you’re – never mind, that’s beside the point.”

“What is the point?”

“You’re over budget. You’re even over the _joint budget_ of Five and Six combined.”

“Shocking.”

 _Daryl Wenham, deputy head of the accounting department_ , James’s mind fills in the blanks. Judging by his suit, James would have pegged the feller for an entry-level assistant. Skinny ties – a crime against humanity. 

“Please, Q, just tell me you’ll be balanced this quarter at least.” 

“As long as 007 doesn’t wreck another car, we will be.”

“Geez, now I can sleep peacefully… Speaking of sleep –”

James hears Q snort, muttering something that sounds a lot like “smooth”. 

“I checked your schedule,” Daryl continues, his voice dipping lower. “What do you say: Friday, you, me, a bed, and a bottle of Tesco vintage merlot?”

A pause. “I don’t see why not.”

“Blimey, don’t I feel cherished now.”

Silence falls and James would bet his Aston Martin that Q’s gaze is transmitting better than words ever could that anyone who invites a bloke over with the promise of _Tesco vintage red wine_ does not warrant any degree of enthusiasm. 

“Friday?” Wenham’s voice again, close to a purr. 

James counts down the seconds in his head for Q to decline. However, the quartermaster once again surprises him. 

“Barring emergencies.”

“Perfect. Then I’ll go suck up to my boss before he decides to cut Q-Branch’s tea budget.”

“You better, or the next time your department almost brings the servers down, we’re going to let you handle it yourselves while we lean back and laugh.”

“Sometimes you scare me, Q.”

“Good.” 

James can hear the soft smile in Q’s voice, then two pairs of retreating footsteps signalling the end of the exchange. He releases a breath he has been holding since Q in all earnestness accepted a casual invitation to someone’s flat whose biggest selling point was that at least a bed would be provided. 

It’s not that James has been thinking of Q as a prude or wearing a chastity belt until now; the banter they share regularly has long since established that MI6’s resident genius engineer and hacker is familiar with sex, and the way his eyes trace the expanse of James’s shoulders or flicker down his chest and stomach leaves no doubt Q is interested in men that way. 

No, it’s the company he keeps that proves vexing. James is the last person to criticise someone for resorting to casual shags to satisfy one’s needs, yet a man of Q’s calibre warrants… well, something better than cheap red wine and an after-work fumble. 

Maybe James should finally yield to the temptation that has been mounting ever since the quartermaster left him speechless, fuelled by close proximity and a growing list of unanswered questions. 

“007, there you are!” 

One of Dr Frost’s lab assistants sighs when all James does is give her his most charming smile. He allows her to drag him deeper into the hallway, slips into the cowl dotted with electrodes without too much complaint, and suffers through Dr Frost’s speech about how the equipment requires the utmost concentration to work at optimum capacity. 

In light of recent development, James is unsurprised when he falls off the vertical glass surface a total of six times. The tech is revolutionary, true – having gloves and shoes at his disposal that stick to the outsides of buildings and are controlled by his thoughts would have facilitated many of James’s missions in the past – but still in a rather early stage in its development. 

When Dr Frost finally calls quits, her expression as cold as her name, James is suppressing pained grunts from the prolonged strain that hours of climbing put on his muscles. He keeps his pace relaxed as he ambles towards the nearby shower, then wastes no time shedding his clothes in the changing room and washing the gel out of his hair that connected the electrodes with his scalp. 

James closes his eyes against the hot spray of water. Q is going to be there soon, hopefully to tell him he can go home. The perfect opportunity to make his move. 

Karma seems to be on his side today, for moments later the door of the staff shower room creaks and a familiar voice calls out, “007, join me when you’re decent.”

Smirking to himself, James towels off and puts only his trousers back on, leaving the sportswear the scientists equipped him with in a pile on the floor as he ambles out into the small but humid changing room, towel still in hand. 

Q is considering the screen of his tablet and merely spares him a glance when he enters, then does a double take. The movement of Q’s throat draws James’s gaze away from his reddening face and James preens internally.

“Your definition of ‘decent’ and mine seem to be diametrically opposed, I’m afraid.”

“Am I making you nervous, Q?”

“The only feeling you currently provoke in me is exasperation. Dr Frost said you were distracted. She’s rather bent.”

James takes a step closer, passing the towel from one hand to the other. “I was thinking.”

“Oh my, I’ll prepare for carnage and chaos,” Q quips. There is a smile playing about his lips. “May I enquire what about, 007?”

He smiles, holding Q’s curious gaze. “I’d like to take you out to dinner, if you’re free.”

Green eyes widen as the meaning of James’s question registers, yet the very next thing they do is dart to the side, almost as if checking for hidden cameras. Something clenches in James’s chest at the implications. 

He keeps his expression sincere until Q blinks at him, realisation dawning that the offer is genuine. “You want to take me out to dinner.”

“On a date,” James clarifies. “There’s this Korean place I’ve been meaning to try. How about Friday night? Or are you working?” 

“Don’t pretend you haven’t looked up my work schedule,” Q says, not unkindly. 

“Well, then,” James concedes. “Are you willing?”

He expected some hesitation, but not the suspicious pursing of lips that accompanies it. 

“You mean the four-star Korean restaurant that’s so en vogue right now? You won’t dazzle me with expensive wine and stellar service, Bond.”

Never let it be said that Q presents anything other than a challenge, no matter the context. 

“That wasn’t a no,” James points out. 

Q adjusts his glasses, glancing down at his tablet before pointedly looking at James’s face instead of his bare torso. “No, it wasn’t.”

“We’ll go to your favourite restaurant, then,” James suggests without missing a beat. 

Another second of silence passes between them. When he really wants, Q has an inscrutable poker face. 

“Fine. Pick me up at seven. Be late and I’ll spend the night beating my high score at Halo Five.”

James aims his most blinding smile at Q. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You’re free to go, by the way,” Q says, clearing his throat. “Report to Yeun first thing tomorrow.”

“Oh joy. Starting the day with bulky Kevlar.”

Instead of correcting him again, Q heaves the kind of sigh that means he would prefer rolling his eyes but deems it too juvenile. He makes to leave, fingers already wrapped around the door handle, when James discovers he made one grave oversight. 

“Hang on – what’s your favourite restaurant?” 

The mirth in Q’s features is almost blinding. “You’re a spy, 007. I’m sure forty-eight hours are more than enough time to figure that out.”

The door clicks shut behind him. James throws his head back and laughs. 

*

In the end, James bribes Eve with the truth, a pleading smile, and tickets to the next Smiths concert for her and Sam after twenty-seven hours of dead ends and frustration, a fact he vows to take to his grave.

*

Q is not panicking. 

He knows panic, has felt its paralytic grip on his limbs and his mind, but his current state is nowhere near that. 

“How are you so composed?” 

Q meets Eve’s questioning look through the open Skype tab. His laptop is perched on the sideboard of his bedroom, the place hurriedly cleared to make room amidst the clutter only a week long holiday would get rid of. Something Q decidedly has no use for, not when unknown enemies are trying to gain access to MI6 servers through illicit means. Again. 

“Slacks or chinos?”

The deflection fails. “Come on, Q! I figured you’d be at least a little nervous. I mean… a date with James.” She wriggles her eyebrows meaningfully. 

“Slacks, definitely.”

“Q.”

He exhales audibly. “I’m not nervous because there is nothing to be nervous about. I have no idea what prompted this, but let’s not pretend this is anything other than an expensive gateway to seducing me. I refuse to be another notch on 007’s bedpost, which means this date is going to end poorly, and I see no need of getting my hopes up, Miss Moneypenny.”

“What makes you say –”

“I know my operatives, Eve,” Q interrupts. “I’ve listened to even more seductions than instances of torture, and Bond inviting me to a sodding four-star restaurant is nothing if not consistent with his history, both inside and outside the agency. For whatever reason that berk decided he wants me, well.” Q huffs. “He won’t get me.”

He grabs his favourite pair of slacks, dark blue and thick enough to shield his legs against the cold January air, and slips them on. Tucking in his vest, he raises an eyebrow at his friend who obviously isn’t happy with his choice but knows better than to cast a veto. 

Q dons a white, long-sleeved T-shirt since it will work with whatever he throws over it as well as with his grey pea coat, then turns a calculating gaze on his wardrobe. 

“What about that cardigan with the, you know?” Eve suggests. 

It speaks volumes about their friendship that Q knows exactly what she is referring to.

Q meets her eye through the webcam, then walks over and tilts the screen a little to include the bed where Q had laid out that particular item in advance. Of course Turing decided it was better used as a spot to pursue the art of feline fur care. 

Eve laughs for fifteen seconds while Q glares before she pauses, eyes lighting up. “Oh, I know! Remember that green jumper you wore to my birthday party?”

Q does. It’s a snug-fitting woollen beauty in what Eve called ‘Slytherin green’ which is too casual for work but not casual enough for everyday lounging, neither sexy nor bland. In other words, an average outfit for an average date. 

Maybe he should have gone to Daryl’s after all. Equally average, but with less fuss involved. 

Two minutes to seven, Q makes to sign off, yet Eve holds up a hand. 

“What?”

“Give him a chance, Q. He might surprise you.”

“Yes, and Windows 11 is superior to Linux.”

He closes the application before Eve can dole out any further unwanted advice. He places a quick kiss on Turing’s forehead, chuckling at the unimpressed look he receives in return, and checks whether or not Linux is still perched on the coffee table where Q foolishly set down the cardboard box that held the decommissioned motherboards Q saved from destruction. No need to let several hundred quid worth of equipment go to waste, after all. 

Linux’s eyes open a sliver when she hears him approach, her expression unambiguous.

“I’m not taking the box away,” he promises. “Guess no goodbye kiss for you?”

She lowers her lids. 

“So I’m dismissed? Thank you, my lady,” Q mutters, adjusting his glasses. 

He does not jump when the doorbell rings. 

The timestamp on the intercom’s screen confirms Bond is perfectly punctual. Q lets his eyes rake over the man’s handsome features and dip lower, taking in the lack of tie and open collar that exposes the hollow of his throat and makes Q’s pulse hitch. 007 combined a light grey waistcoat with a sky blue shirt, his coat and scarf draped over his left arm while his right – 

“Is that catnip?” Q says the moment the door is sufficiently open. 

Bond doesn’t even blink at the abrupt greeting, simply presents the modest bouquet with a smile. Where did the man even find fresh catnip in London in the middle of January?

“I hope your cats like it.”

Q accepts the bundle, his fingers brushing Bond’s. “Linux does. It has no effect on Turing.”

“One out of two, then.”

“I’ll just –” Q gestures faintly, but the other man nods and waits patiently while Q scours his cupboards for something that might serve as a vase. He settles on his largest mug and locks the catnip into the workshop (officially the guest room) as quickly as possible since Linux has already perked up and is watching his movements with interest. 

When he returns to the hallway, Bond has pushed the door closed but is waiting inside the flat, cutting a dashing figure in the bespoke clothes, weaponised Omega watch inconspicuous on his left wrist. 

The agent smiles, blue eyes bright in the well-lit space. “You look good.”

It’s nothing but a line, Q reminds himself. Still, it’s nice to hear. “So do you.”

Their departure is a tad awkward since Q has yet to put on his coat and Bond makes a move to help only to have Q sidestep his efforts. Amicable small talk about Linux’s previous experiences with catnip carries them down to the garage and to James’s Aston Martin. 

A motorcycle is parked in the vicinity and draws an admiring sideways glance from 007. Q has to bite his tongue – it’s his bike, the one big personal indulgence he invested his signing bonus in after transferring to MI6. 

“Well, Bond – where are we going?” Q wonders after buckling up. 

“James,” the man corrects. “And your favourite restaurant, of course.”

Q makes sure to signal how utterly unimpressed he is by the other man’s cockiness. 

A comfortable silence envelopes them once 007 starts the engine and weaves out of the underground garage. Q is proud to say he lasts three entire minutes before he starts fidgeting, the lack of tablet or other gadgets on his person almost a palpable absence. No matter how pessimistic he is about this date, however, he is not going to be the kind of twit to toy with his phone. 

On the other hand, it’s not like he would be playing a trivial game of Angry Birds – his phone is perfectly capable of granting remote access to MI6’s servers that hold many outstanding tasks.

Yes, Q has never been very good at holding still. 

Bond – no, _James_ – notices, judging by his growing smirk… and lets him fidget, the prat.

He also finds a parking space in Lambeth on a Friday night, since apparently even the private life of 007 is filled with impossible things. At least the man selected the correct restaurant, an authentic Indian place with modest decorations and equally modest prices. 

Q can practically feel the complacency oozing from James’s pores while they are walking the short distance to the front door, so he asks in his driest tone, “How long before you got Eve to tell you? Twelve hours? Eighteen?” 

The jibe rolls right off the other man. “Twenty-seven.”

 _Huh._

“Does that surprise you?”

“As a general rule, nothing about you surprises me, Double-oh – James.” 

Q cringes. That would have been rather smooth without his blunder near the end there. 

Bond lets it slide, coming to a stop in front of the well-lit entrance that sports the restaurant’s name and opening times in golden letters. He opens the doors with a smile that’s neither patronising nor teasing, and proves he is a fast learner when he leaves Q to remove his coat on his own. 

A lacklustre mix of groups and couples are already seated, animated conversations humming in the background as a waiter leads them through the maze of tables and chairs. Q spares a thought to the staff, four in total to cover the entire establishment if Q recalls, who will have a rather stressful night. 

The table James chose is as secluded as possible in a restaurant like this, placed against the wall and nestled between two decorative pillars that shield it from unnecessary attention. 

Q finds his throat dry at the sight. This is _his_ table. 

The smile that has yet to leave James’s face has softened when Q’s head snaps up sharply at the realisation and bloody hell, how is Q supposed to keep up his negative attitude towards this date when Bond goes and does touching things like this?

Once seated, their waiter lights the tea candle within its small holder in the middle of their table and slips away to grab their menus. 

James could not look more out of place if he tried, even without wearing a full suit. “Do you come here often?”

“Not as much since I became Q. Even less so since I moved. The food is splendid, I assure you.”

“I’ll have to judge that for myself.”

“The cooks don’t westernise their dishes here. For a well-travelled man such as yourself, I’m sure that will be a plus.”

That appears to soothe James’s concerns somewhat. They accept their menus from their waiter and James seeks the young man’s eye. “Could you bring me the wine list?”

The man – boy, really – hesitates. “It’s at the back?”

Q chuckles at the confusion that flickers across James’s expression. “There’s one carte for everything, James.”

The agent ends up ordering something with a complicated name for reasons beyond Q – his knowledge of wine begins and ends with the differentiation in red, white, and rosé – and Q requests a nimbu pani. Silence stretches between them as James studies the carte. Q mirrors him even though he knows it by heart, grateful that 007 has never been known to be indecisive. 

When their waiter returns with papadam, Q notices the halting and unsure quality of his movements. They presumably caught him on his first busy night. Q makes sure he meets the young man’s eyes when he thanks him. 

James squints at him from across the table. 

“It’s called being nice to the staff,” Q says, unable to keep the bite out of his tone.

“I think ‘nice’ is another for our list of words we have trouble finding a common definition for.”

“It’s the bloke’s first day, _James_. No need to add any more stress to it by being awful guests.”

Even to his own ears that sounded defensive. There is no way James missed the inflection, and sure, the man’s lips are already curling. 

“I’m trying to picture you as a waiter.”

“Close, but no.” 

James waits for him to go on. Q hesitates again, unsure how much he is willing to reveal… only to realise that James has not had the same courtesy. He has megabytes full of all there is to know about the man’s life, and Q is railing against such a minor detail. 

So he says, “My mother. Thirty-three years and counting.”

He lets that sink in. 

“How did you discover computers?”

Oh, apparently Bond has questions. It has been years since anyone asked, and even longer since Q deemed it safe to tell the truth. 

“Well, if you believe my parents, I liked to take things apart long before I knew how to put them back together. Ta’s a mechanic, so he could teach me, up to a certain point. He was much better at machines than anything, but it was enough to introduce me to the world of building and improving things.”

James shifts slightly in his chair, something almost vulnerable consuming his features. “Must have been nice.”

“They were. Are. My parents are still alive. It’s my sister that’s the pain in the arse,” Q admits, though the lie is betrayed by the fondness colouring his tone. 

At least his companion is smiling now. _I did that,_ Q realises. It’s a wonderful feeling. 

“Tell me about them,” James prompts, and Q does, talking about his sister’s annoying habits and his mother’s iron faith, recounts how his father tried to interest him in soccer and rugby – failing miserably, of course – and the topic carries them through the arrival of their drinks and entertains them until the food is ready. 

Its quality conciliates James with the for him clearly substandard service, and slowly but surely the conversation morphs into a dialogue, filled with just as much banter as the less formal periods they share over a comms link. 

It dawns gradually on Q that he is genuinely enjoying himself. Alarm bells start ringing inside his head, but he shakes himself in an effort to drown them out. 

“Where did you go?” James asks. “Something on your mind?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

James waits. 

Q licks his lips. “I’m sure you’ve gathered that I’m not making a habit out of this.”

“Oh, and here I was under the impression you’re a social butterfly.”

“All right, then I won’t tell you.”

To no one’s surprise, James pouts in that manly sort of way he has mastered only to torture those around him. “You can’t leave it at that.”

“Only if you tell me something in return.”

A moment passes, but eventually James nods. Q rakes a hand through his hair, wondering what the sodding hell he is doing. 

“The last time I had a date, the bloke only wanted to extort information. It was a long time ago and I know you aren’t secretly a spy from the private sector, but…”

“This reminded you.”

“Yes. Daft, forget it.”

James is silent until Q meets his gaze. “It isn’t. When you get burned… it stays with you.”

Q almost thinks he misheard – it is a well-known fact that James Bond does not under any circumstances allude to, let alone talk, about Vesper Lynd. 

Cognisance hits him like a bucket of ice water. 

This is a _date_. 

James Bond would not refer to the ghost haunting his existence when his objective is to merely pull Q into his bed. That is not how the agent works and Q has been a bleeding idiot who let preconceived notions blind his reasoning. 

_Shit._

This changes things. 

“Would you like another drink?” their waiter asks. 

Ever the gentleman, James defers the decision to Q. The surprise filling those blue eyes when Q orders a Tamarind Martini makes him wince internally. 

“Simple Martini for me,” James says, his eyes still on Q. “Shaken, not stirred.”

Q grasps for something – anything – to say and leaps onto the first subject he can think of, given he has the social skills of a goldfish. “Well, uh, James. I know I told the minions to be hard on you, but, uh. They aren’t too bad, are they?”

He watches in fascination as James’s features light up. It can’t be the memory of all those long, strenuous hours in Q-Branch since he starts complaining immediately, so Q contends that somehow, Bond picked up on the change in Q’s demeanour. 

“… and don’t get me started on Yeun’s side projects – do you know your underlings are trying to replicate the Iron Man suit?”

Q smirks. “Officially, no.”

“Unofficially?”

“I was the first to test the gauntlet.”

James laughs, the sound clear and happy. They linger over their respective Martinis, with James even trying Q’s Tamarind version (“Blasphemy,” being his verdict), and when the bill arrives, James reaches for it without allowing for protests. 

He leaves a hefty tip, too. Q’s chest feels warm, and it’s not from the alcohol. 

“So, Q,” James says as they are ambling down the street towards the car. “Will you tell me your name?”

Q’s steps don’t falter. He expected this question, even before he realised his date was genuine in his intentions. 

“I’m afraid you haven’t earned that privilege yet, James.”

He expects a protest of sorts, though none comes. All the man does is shoot him a sideways smirk as if Q just presented him with the most exciting challenge he has been issued in months. Well, he is free to try. Q’s resolve can withstand anything, even 007 on a mission to woo. 

By the time Q fastens his seat belt, he is so nervous about what the return to their building will bring that he almost misses James’s next question. 

“What’s your pet project?”

“Pardon?”

“Yeun has the gauntlet, Farid those spiders, Tess her crossbows… makes me wonder what you do to relax around the office.”

“Why don’t you wager a guess?”

“What do I get if I’m right?”

“Why does it have to be a competition?”

James folds with a tilt of his head. “It has to be something complex, or else you’d pawn it off to your minions,” he theorises. “Something beneficial to the world, but not too selfless.” They stop at a traffic light and he turns towards Q. “A challenge. Programming, of some kind. How am I fairing so far?”

“Eerily well,” Q admits. “I’m taking a jab at artificial intelligence.”

“You mean computers that think for themselves?”

“Not quite.”

And Q is off, delineating the difference between current narrow AIs and the sentient, adaptive programming with the ability to learn and secure resources that he has in mind. He rambles when he is nervous; stammers, too, in select instances, but he is sure that if James can shoot down a helicopter from a boat then he can man up and tell Q to stop talking. 

He runs out of steam as they reach the lobby. The concierge checks their IDs and lets them pass. 

Q’s palms are sweaty. At least he didn’t button up his coat or else it would be far too hot in the climatised building. The lift is already waiting for them, doors opening the moment Q calls it. He feels James’s eyes on him as he steps into the cubicle first, flattening his palm against the buttons with the numbers 21 and 22. 

He turns around on an exhale. James is leaning against the opposite wall, relaxed and confident and oh-so bloody attractive. 

Q clears his throat awkwardly. “I had a great time.” 

James waits a second before pushing himself off the wall. His voice is but a rumble in his chest. “Me, too.” 

He takes three steps in Q’s direction, the distance between their faces dwindling with each one, and Q’s breath hitches as James’s eyes turn predatory, almost liquid in the heat they emanate and ready to consume Q whole. 

If he closes the distance, brushes his lips against Bond’s, lets the man crowd him against the lift’s wall, then Q knows his self-control will crumble like a house of cards in a breeze. 

So he doesn’t. 

He slants his eyes, mirrors James’s movements, gets close enough to feel the warm huff of the other man’s breath against his lips… then pulls back when the lift opens on his floor. 

Q smiles as he steps to the side and into the hallway, breaking eye contact as he walks off. Only a few steps separate him from his flat when he turns around again, finding blue eyes staring after him in something akin to awe. 

A heartbeat before the doors close, James returns his smile, open and delighted. 

Q cannot wait to find out what their second date will bring. 

*

Eight hours later, Q disappears in one of the blind spots that neither CCTV nor satellites can reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was SO MUCH FUN =) I hope you enjoyed it, too?


	5. Open wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, kidnapped!Q is probably the most overused trope in this pairing, right after Bond breaking into Q’s flat, but I don’t care since I’ve never written it and it’s a favourite of my dear merlenhiver. Also, my villain decided this is the way to go. That was before he realised that Q is a BAMF, not a damsel in distress^^
> 
> **Warnings** for (vague) depictions of torture as well as a spoken rape threat. Please read carefully if any of this might trigger you.

James wishes he could develop a picture from the negative of his memory. He would choose the exact moment Q turned around, a glint in his eye that usually promises challenging missions and long nights, his lips twisted in coyness. 

He can’t, though. Maybe if he asked the Nerd Squad nicely they could come up with the tech, but until then James opts for the next best thing: asking Q to breakfast. 

There is a fifty-fifty chance of finding Q in his flat on his day off, and since the man seems hell-bent on making James’s life difficult, today is not one of those days. 

James picks up breakfast on his way to MI6 with a spring in his step and a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

*

Consciousness returns slowly at first. Q tries to move, stretch out on the bed and arch his back – in case Turing left him enough space to do so – but something chafes against his skin. 

Rope. 

Thick, heavy rope. Because he is tied to a chair. A bloody uncomfortable chair, on top of that. 

_Took them long enough_ , is the first thought that runs through his head, and it’s only a tad hysterical. After all the lectures on the high kidnapping risk associated with his position, Q somehow expected an attempt on his life every other month. Instead, it had taken three and a half years for his luck to run out.

No sound of breathing other than his own. No scrape of the sole of a shoe over concrete, or whatever material the floor is made out of. He is alone, it would seem. 

Q opens his eyes. 

He isn’t sure what he expected – a dungeon, an abandoned warehouse, since it’s always an abandoned warehouse – but he finds himself in something right out of a police procedural from the telly. Only the steel table in front of him is screwed to the floor, the door across from him has no handle, and the walls are bare safe for the one to his right. Its surface is marred, only the slightest relief visible but enough for Q to recognise it. 

_They can see me._

Which means they can probably hear him, too. 

With his heart thrumming a beat against his ribcage, Q clears his throat. “Excuse me? I’m ready for you to tell me why I’m here now,” he croaks. “You know, your grand monologue? Explain how you captured me, why you did it?”

They let him stew. 

Q is on the nine hundred seventy-seventh decimal of Pi ( _two_ ) when finally, the door slides open. 

*

“That’s odd.”

James can but stare at R for her strange choice of words. Maybe he should start a dictionary: Q-Branch – English, English – Q-Branch. 

“Everything all right?” Bill cuts in, joining James, R, and Eve in front of the large screen where _‘SIGNAL NOT FOUND’_ flashes in a worrying shade of red. 

“The whereabouts of Q are currently unknown, sir.”

“What are you saying?”

R takes a deep breath and taps something on her tablet. The screen switches to a map of London, a green dot lighting up at their Riverlight apartment complex. It remains stationary until 8:07 AM when it wanders eastbound, on foot. Then – nothing. 

“Could the tracking device malfunction?” James throws into the room, but Tanner is shaking his head before he has even finished the thought. 

“It’s SmartBlood. It can only be deactivated by us.”

“I thought that was for agents only.”

“Q is his own preferred primary test subject, 007,” Eve says, worry seeping into her tone. 

“Whoever took him must have known and engineered a dampener that cancels out the signal,” R begins, her spine rigid. “They were also smart enough to launch their attack out of the reach of any cameras or satellites.” 

Bill runs a hand over his face. “Bollocks. Pull up the data from last night. Maybe that’ll give us some insight.”

James has to bite his tongue to keep from smiling. As predicted, there are two dots blinking back at them when R switches to a timestamp from the restaurant, one green and one red, labelled 007. 

“Talk to me, what have we got?” The order precedes M who comes to a halt between his chief of staff and R. 

Tanner coughs. “It appears 007 and Q went on a date last night, sir.”

A beat. M’s expression remains blank. “I don’t see how that classifies as an emergency.”

“Q has also been missing since 8:21 this morning, sir.” 

A shadow darkens M’s features. “SPECTRE?” 

“Inconclusive,” R offers. “Judging by the sophistication of the extraction, it is likely.”

Mallory removes his hands from the pockets of his trousers, then turns to look James directly in the eyes. “Are you up for this?”

“Yes, sir.” 

M nods, calling to attention the rest of Q-Branch who are doing a suboptimal job of pretending not to be snooping, and five minutes later everyone has a job to do. 

Only when all attention has left him does James allow himself the briefest moment of worry. 

Then he squares his shoulders, and follows Tanner.

* 

The man who enters looks harmless. Average height, average build, a round, soft face, and shaggy, dirty blond hair that falls past his ears, dressed in denim and a beige Henley. He looks no day over 30, if that. 

_Maybe they sent the intern_ , Q’s mind supplies and he has to bite his tongue to keep from chuckling. 

“Hi there, quartermaster,” the bloke says with a smile, revealing an American accent. 

“What’s that?” Q tries, only to have the other man laugh at him as he ambles over to the table and waves a hand at nothing in particular. 

“Aw, ain’t you droll! If not to say, _cute_.” 

Q rolls his eyes. Brilliant - his captor is an obnoxious twit. It’s not too thick, though the accent could be something southern as far as Q can tell, Mississippi or Georgia or Louisiana. He really should have paid more attention to linguistics. 

“Point is, I know who you are so just cut the crap and get with the programme, sugar.” The man hops onto the table with a shark-like grin, his right shoulder to Q.

“And what _is_ the programme?” 

“Oh, nothing too bad. I just need ya to delete some files for me.” 

Q tilts his head. “Why?” 

The bloke scowls. “Cause I can’t get past your fucking encryption, that’s why.” 

Something clicks in Q’s head. “You’re the one who tried to hack our servers. You’re good.” 

The other man winks, snobby and utterly full of himself. Q can’t resist taking him down a notch. “You’re good… but I’m Q.” 

Brown eyes darken with bitterness. “Yeah, yeah, pat yourself on the back, hun - oh wait, you can’t! Who’s got the upper hand now?” 

As if to underscore his point, his captor wriggles his hands. Q tries to shrug which is difficult since the ropes barely allow enough leeway for his circulation. 

“What?” the bloke asks when Q remains silent. 

He inhales slowly. “It’s rude to kidnap someone and not even introduce yourself.”

And his captor is grinning again. The changing tide of emotion is more than a tad annoying, Q finds. 

“You’re fierce, I like that. I’m the Archangel, but you can call me Gabriel.”

The man – Gabriel – pauses, presumably for effect, yet neither the name nor the alias rings any bells. The fellow pouts, the gesture enough to remind Q of Bond even if the other man is nowhere near as handsome or suave as he is. 

Scowling, Gabriel brings one hand up to pull his hair back from his ear where Q glimpses a familiar shape, the black ink a stark contrast to the man’s fair skin. 

The wings. The symbol they have been unable to match to anything. _Archangel._

“Nah?” Gabriel taunts. “Caught up, Q?” 

“Why do you care about the files?” he rasps, though he is fairly certain this is about the SPECTRE files. He would even put a wager on it, if he were at MI6. 

“Let’s just say it’s a matter of life and death.” His vowels are clearer now, the thick drawl almost gone. It’s unclear whether Gabriel does it on purpose.

“Your death,” Q translates, trying to ignore how unsettling he finds the bloke’s demeanour.

Gabriel pulls up one shoulder in assent before he aims a decidedly chilly glance at Q. “So you’re clear on my stakes in this. If you’re not gonna cooperate, I’ll hurt you. I’ll hurt you till you’re begging me to hand you a laptop. And then you’re gonna delete all raw files, the backup on the MI6 server, the other backup with MI5, and,” he continues, drawing out the ‘a’ obnoxiously, “the secret proxy you thought no one knew about.” 

Q’s throat tightens. Bugger, that proxy should have been buried so far down the deep web that it runs the risk of emerging on the other end. 

Gabriel seems to sense his rising panic for his tone softens again. “You know, sugar, we could just skip it? I mean I borrowed all these brutal henchmen from SPECTRE with degrees in, what’d ya call it? Advanced interrogation skills?” He leans forward until his face is level with Q’s. “But know what, we could just pretend we tortured you. You do as we say, we ain’t ratting you out.”

“You aren’t a member, then? Of SPECTRE, I mean?”

Gabriel shrugs, slipping off the table again. “More of a contractor, really.” 

“Why don’t you walk away?” 

“Why don’t _you_?” 

Q falls silent. Gabriel turns his palms out, as if to say ‘case in point’. “So, what’ll it be?” he continues. “Pain or betrayal?” He holds up a hand, three fingers extended. “Offer expires in three…”

For a split second, Q considers saying yes. He could delete everything the bastard asked him to, and there would still be two separate copies, hidden in his cats’ food dispenser and one on the cat trees, respectively. There is a protocol to alert Eve to their existence in case either backup is deleted, even via admin override. 

“Two…”

It’s too soon, however. Scraping the last traces of the files off the servers takes time, though not long enough for MI6 to catch up with him, wherever he is. The risk is too high.

“One…”

Q clenches his jaw. He has to buy time for his extraction team to get here, even if said team consists only of a single agent. 

Gabriel fixes him with a disappointed huff. “Fine, have it your way… Come on in, y’all.”

The latter was said at a higher volume and shortly after, the door across from Q slides open again. Four people enter, all in black military-style clothing that is too different to be an actual uniform. One woman and three men, one of the latter as tall and imposing as Blofeld’s thug who followed Q in Austria. 

It takes Q three entire seconds to conclude from the equipment they carry that they are about to _waterboard_ him; but when he does, he can’t bite back the laughter that bubbles up in his chest. 

*

One of the analysts discovers a mobile phone signal that was in Q’s vicinity four times over the past two weeks when the man wasn’t at work or at home. It is an unlisted number but cross-referencing the CCTV footage of the different times the signal was logged against each other yields a suspect. 

MI5 provides a name; their friends from Germany the final puzzle piece. 

“Our mark was caught on the security camera of an underground train in central Berlin,” Tanner explains while R and Tess are equipping James with more expensive gadgets than Q ever trusted him with. Everyone expresses worry differently, James muses. 

“The Federal Intelligence Agency accepts that you have a licence to kill but kindly request you show some restraint on their soil.”

James grunts, both unable and above all _unwilling_ to promise anything. 

Two hours later he is on a plane to Berlin-Schönefeld where a rental car awaits him. He arrives at Alexanderplatz shortly after 8 AM local time, almost 24 hours after Q disappeared. Three more hours and countless questions later, salvation comes in the form of a tired student employee of a snack shop. He recognises the man on the photo James shows him from several hours ago.

“Hat er gesagt, wo er übernachtet?” James asks. 

“Ja, im ‘Ritz’. Hat voll angegeben damit, vallah.” 

The Ritz-Carlton. Finally – a lead. 

James buys a pretzel from the bloke with a ten-Euro bill and takes the next train to Potsdamer Platz. He travels with nothing but a briefcase and his suit is still unrumpled enough to grant him easy access to the five-star hotel. James spares a smile for the receptionists not currently talking to customers and takes in the luxurious marble staircase in front of him. On the left he can discern a bar, brightly lit at the morning hour and mostly deserted, with a hallway leading towards the hotel’s restaurant. His mark is not there; he checked through the windows from outside. 

Which leaves the first floor. 

The staircase leads him into a luscious foyer, already prepared for what looks like a coffee break. Thankfully, there is no staff in sight. 

“The seminar is organised by British Petrol,” R tells him after he called it in. “Our suspect’s name doesn’t appear on any of the hotel records but there are only four single men who checked in two days ago. One of them was on the plane we think our feller caught. He goes by Manfred Klein.”

James doesn’t have to wait long. When the guests spill out of the three ballrooms and into the foyer to refuel with coffee, tea, and pastries, the one James has been hunting is among them. 

He spots James as he reaches for a muffin and freezes. 

Then he is off, thinking he can outrun a Double-oh agent who has spent the past two weeks on a Q-Branch induced fitness regime. 

The chase leads them through the backrooms and up the staff staircase, past uniformed servers who jump out of the way when James shouts, “MOVE!” He loses Klein for a moment between the ninth and tenth floor since the sodding hallways look completely identical, but catches up with him again on the staircase. 

It soon becomes apparent that Klein is stalling. His trajectory points upwards, and James would bet his Aston Martin that the man is buying time until his taxi arrives. 

They eventually burst onto the flat roof, no aircraft in sight yet, where his target whirls around frantically. 

“I just want information!” James calls. 

“Toss off!” 

“Now, that’s not nice.” 

He pounces. The grappling hook arrow buries itself in the concrete underneath him and the clasp clicks in place when he fastens it to the practically invisible harness underneath his jacket. Klein puts up a decent fight yet sooner rather than later, he loses his balance and James tackles him off the roof. 

Dr Frost refused to hand out her prototypes, but Tess was more than forthcoming when it came to her things.

Which means James is hanging off the roof of a nineteen-floor building, his left arm gripping the elastic rope while his right is the only difference between Klein surviving and him falling down seventy metres onto the very nice Ferrari parked in front of the hotel. 

A crowd of onlookers has already gathered left of the DB Tower, pointing their phones and gasping at the scene. 

Klein, meanwhile, is close to hyperventilating. 

“You can tell us everything you know and live, or I can let you fall,” James tells him, his tone brooking no argument. “Think fast – my arm’s starting to hurt.”

An hour later, James has a name and a rough location. 

*

Q is no stranger to torture. 

He has witnessed its application in many different ways and settings, has read even more on the physiology and psychology behind it, has learned by proxy how no person reacts like another. 

007’s penchant for dry humour as a means of distraction may be Q’s favourite, 009’s iron silence, only broken by muffled moans and gasps, a close second. He still hears 003’s screams in his nightmares sometimes, even though she stresses she exaggerates, given that a majority of men will be affected by a woman’s suffering according to her. Q’s first 004 screamed, too, in the beginning. He grew quiet soon thereafter. “I forgive you,” was the last thing he said before his execution, aware of Q’s presence on the other end despite M’s order to give the man up. 

Q, though – Q babbles. Pain makes him ramble worse than being in close proximity to James Bond, apparently. 

It proves a good thing, too, for after two days (or three, his internal clock is buggered; they let him sleep a lot, and Q’s treacherous body welcomes it) he concludes that escape is impossible without assistance. All appliances in his tiny cell are activated by motion sensors with the exception of the ventilation, which is always calibrated to the coldest setting possible. The shower is scalding, the extremes in temperature adding another layer of agony that… is beside the point. 

Q squeezes his eyes shut, heedless of the tears spilling onto his cheeks from the pain in his thigh. The femur is certainly broken, if not damaged worse than that. Not his hands, though. His hands are unharmed. And they stopped waterboarding him rather quickly…

_No, focus. Escape plan._

“I could help you,” he coughs, his last topic of incoherent muttering already forgotten. Something about Pi, perhaps. “I would, you’d have my word. Help me break free, hand me over to my employer, and I’ll give you all you need to break it off with yours.”

His tormentor – Bashir, Q overheard, and somehow related to Mr Hinx – doesn’t react. 

Neither of his guards ever reacts. Not even the woman in the group who has yet to lay a hand on him. She only guards and watches and brings a soggy pulp that embodies the American’s sorry excuse for porridge. He’s been calling her Ziva inside his head since he glimpsed a David star pendant around her neck (even he caught a few episodes of NCIS). 

“I meant it,” Q whispers on the forth day. Speaking hurts his jaw but his instincts are telling him to push past it. Besides, it overshadows the throbbing in his leg, which is a reprieve. “I could set you up with passports, bank accounts… not only for you. For a lover. A spouse. An unborn child.” 

Her hand twitches where it is wrapped around her Kalashnikov. Q tries to meet her eye but she refuses. 

“Your time’s almost up, darlin’,” Gabriel sneers the next morning. 

He has been hovering near the edges, keeping his distance from too much blood and tears. Q’s eyes zero in on the man’s T-shirt, visible because the denim jacket is unbuttoned, bright red with the Flash emblem on the chest. Q has a similar one. The thought churns his stomach. 

“Still so dang ornery after all this…” Q doubts he would understand that expression even if he weren’t currently tied to a chair with a broken leg, some bruises, and a cut above his right eye. “I’ll give you one last chance to sing, then I’ll pull out the big guns.”

Q just stares up at him from his by-now familiar place on the chair. It actually dips back, thanks to joints fastened to the floor and the chair’s hind legs. Q hasn’t had a chance to check whether it is handmade or bought somewhere. 

If there even are torture supply shops. Q misses Google. 

“What, you ain’t curious?” Gabriel grins expectantly. “Get it? Q-rious?” He laughs at his own joke. 

Q would chime in if his vocal chords weren’t still on fire. 

“Okay, I’ll show ya, sweet pea. See?” 

It’s a branding iron, shaped like Gabriel’s Archangel wings. 

“I was gonna do the SPECTRE thing, but I’da needed to commission an iron and well, this one’s already here.”

“You branded people before?” Q wonders, genuinely taken aback. 

Gabriel seems to understand his reasoning for he scoffs, his voice mostly accent-free again. “Sure as hell did. You know how hard it is, getting some respect as the hacker in a criminal organisation? Sure, everyone’s always brown-nosing up to you: a favour here, a denial of service attack there…” He continues in a startlingly good impression of a Russian accent. “Please, Gabriel, disable this city’s surveillance capabilities,” and something French, “empty that bank account…”

If the ease with which his captor switches between the inflections is anything to go by, his southern drawl could be a ruse, too. Q swallows as he meets those hard, brown eyes again. 

“I’m not a meek little nerd, you know? I’ve killed people. Okay, I mostly pay or blackmail others to do that for me, but you know what I’m getting at, don’tcha, sugar?”

Q does not dare reply. 

“So, pal – last chance to ask for a laptop before I fire up the blowtorch.”

He almost does it. Almost gives in. It would be authentic, the threat of a permanent mark on his skin. Bashir wouldn’t call him out on a lie. 

… yet what if he does?

Films and series make it seem as though everyone has a breaking point. That’s humbug – torture is only as effective as the tormentor’s ability to tell when his subject is telling the truth. Unfortunately, Bashir strikes Q as a professional.

So, no. Too risky. 

Q grits his teeth. Gabriel shrugs, and one of the guards flicks on the blowtorch.

*

A name and a flight lead James to a house full of squatters in North America, where a woman wearing a Guy Fawkes mask snarls at him for insinuating the spineless capitalist he is looking for would be allowed inside their community. 

James soldiers on, gets her drunk. He has the intel he needs long before her hands would have strayed to the buttons of his shirt. James slinks into the darkness, telling himself he is too pressed for time. 

* 

When the fog of searing pain radiating from his left shoulder clears enough that he can blink his eyes open again, Gabriel cocks an eyebrow. 

“Still not singing? Or typing, more precisely?”

Q shakes his head with a growl. 

“Well, then. Time for the grand finale, Kian.”

_Oh, shit._

Q’s blood runs cold even as Gabriel is snapping his fingers at the female guard. She opens the door and there is Jessica, her mascara smeared across her cheeks and hair a mess, leggings torn and clothes ruffled, staring at him in naked fear. 

The world tilts on its axis. 

Gabriel pulls her into the room, producing a gun ( _Beretta PX4_ , Q’s mind supplies, unbidden) but not pointing it at Jess yet. 

“Now, Kian. You’re not our type, darlin’. Not mine, nor my amigos’ here. Your sister, though –” 

“Don’t you dare touch her!” Q snaps, yet a roaring kitten might have been more intimidating, all things considered. 

“Hush, I’m making a point here.”

“Then get to it,” Q growls, but Gabriel merely chuckles. 

“Isn’t it obvious? You either do what I want, or I’ll throw this dollface to the guards. Hell, before that I might even break her leg – the left one, so you’ll have matching battle wounds, ain’t that poetic. She’s a dancer, right?”

Gabriel stops, then, grinning broadly with a dark glint in his eyes. It should have been impossible to link Q to his family, but that assumption is evidently flawed. 

A whimper from Jess draws Q’s eyes to her. He is at a loss about what to say, how to soothe or calm her down. He yearns to pull her close and shield her from the monster holding her, but the ropes chafe against his skin. 

“Ya notice that, baby?” Gabriel is whispering, his lips close to Jessica’s ear, and Q sees her shudder. “Your big bro got madder than a wet hen when I threatened to lay a hand on ya, but he really lost his gonads when I made the crack about your leg. Dancing’s real important to ya, ain’t it?” 

Jess doesn’t rise to the bait, even though Q can see her jaw clench. She doesn’t plead with Gabriel, doesn’t tell Q to keep resisting. She knows as well as he does that there is nothing Q won’t do for his sister. 

Gabriel drags the barrel of the gun down Jessica’s neckline again, wriggling his eyebrows even as he tightens the arm across her chest and lifts an expectant eyebrow. 

Q folds. 

It feels like betrayal despite the data-laden microchips residing in his flat. 

*

James always thought Georgia would be warm, but the temperatures are barely above zero degrees Celsius given that sunrise is still hours away. 

The secluded five-storey residence is nestled between agglomerations of trees that shield it from three sides. Only the front opens to the road where James is approaching, on foot rather than with the roaring engine of a car. 

All windows are dark but James did not expect anything less than a subterranean, soundproofed holding chamber. Archangel is said to be rather clever. 

With a promising click, James removes the safety of his Walther PPK. The green glow of the scanner sends him back to a bench and a painting, then to the vanishing dot on a screen at MI6, and James begins his attack, mind clear and body strumming with adrenaline.

*

A hand over his mouth jerks Q awake. Pain mixes with disorientation and exhaustion, the latter the result of six hours of cleansing several servers of the Spectre files, but then his mind catches up with the situation. 

“You meant it?” Ziva asks in a whisper. 

The door to his cell is open, a low-key light from the ceiling casting the woman’s face in shadows. Her tone is hard, dubious. 

Q nods and she slowly retracts her hand. “I give you my word.” 

The minute that follows will forever be the longest minute of Q’s life. 

“I’m on watch,” she says eventually. “Everyone else is asleep. We need to leave now.”

“My sister –”

“Her, too.”

She rises, but Q touches his fingers to her arm to make her pause. When her eyes are on him again, he murmurs a “Thank you.” 

Her jaw clenches. “I didn’t sign up for rape.”

Q gets no time to react for she is holding out a stick to him. It looks more like the wooden part of a broom than a crutch, but it will have to do. He is able to sit up without assistance, something he is weirdly grateful for, though he wobbles when he pushes himself onto his left, unharmed leg. Her hand on his shoulder – the _wrong_ shoulder – was intended to steady him, but instead it makes him hiss in pain. 

“Keep quiet!”

“You try that with third degree burns,” Q complains, breathing through the throbbing sensation. One of the ruffians cleaned the mark and wrapped it up to keep any oxygen from reaching the wound and triggering the healing process. 

He manages to hobble out of his room ( _cell, it’s a bloody cell, no reason for Stockholm Syndrome_ ) well enough, and watches as Ziva unlocks another one down the clean, sterile hallway. 

Q wants nothing more than to wrap Jess into a hug and never, ever let go. She looks like the wish is mutual, but they’re both smart enough to know that they need to start moving this very second. 

“I reckon we can’t just walk out the door?” he asks as they are climbing up the stairs Q knows to lead to the interrogation rooms. The stairwell extends beyond that level, however, so it is reasonable to assume it could provide a path to freedom even if he has never been taken there. 

Ziva, walking ahead of them with her handgun at the ready, shakes her head. “Motion sensors. I can’t disable them.”

“I could override –”

“No. There’s a faster way.”

“But I –”

“Let’s trust the mercenary, all right, big brother?” Jess cuts in, the hand wrapped around his middle squeezing affectionately. “You’ll get your hands on some tech soon enough.”

_Bugger._ She knows him too well. 

“What’s your name?” he asks two flights of stairs later. His breath is coming in ragged gasps from the strain of too many steps. 

“Stop talking,” Ziva orders, stepping around the corner on what has to be the building’s ground floor. 

It’s a house, as far as Q can tell. An enormous one, that much is evident even in the dim lights Ziva presumably switched on to their lowest setting to circumvent the need for torches. Q’s mind is too clouded from the effort of taking one step at a time without losing his balance to gather much else about the décor. 

“Where are you taking us?” Jess’ brows are pinched, her forehead glistening with a slight sheen of sweat from helping Q manoeuvre the stairs. 

“Fourth floor. There’s a defunct second door to the balcony. No motion sensors.”

“And from there we’re just going to, what,” Q pants, “fly away?”

Ziva ignores him. 

On a flat surface Q can almost walk at a quick pace. It took him two floors to determine the best use of his stick, though now that he has, he doesn’t even need Jess’s helping hand. It gives him a chance to inspect the security measures he can spot (after a grateful glance at his rescuer for bringing along his glasses), and what he sees only adds to the reluctant respect he has for Gabriel. The man genuinely is good. 

“There.”

Q follows Ziva’s nod to the end of a long hallway. The tapestry is frayed where it nears the floor and a thin layer of dust is covering the pictures on the walls, but the door to the terrace seems in good use. He hobbles after Ziva who turned left, presumably to where the defunct door resides. 

Unthinkingly, he puts his right foot down. 

The pain whites out his vision for a second and he has to reach out to the nearest wall to keep himself upright. Jess looks pale even in the white light, worry high in her eyes that doesn’t leave even as Q signals he is fine with a nod while Ziva brings a knife to the lock of the run-down wood of the second exit. 

Q’s eyes fall on the picture next to where his hand landed. Yet when he recognises the teenager in the picture, it is already too late. 

The defunct door is secured, too. Because Gabriel knows about it. Because this is Gabriel’s childhood home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will burn in cliffhanger hell, I know… *grins* 
> 
> PS: [Here's something](http://digitsofpi.com/) for everyone wanting to check if Q was right about the digit of pi... 
> 
> Translations:   
> Hat er gesagt, wo er übernachtet? = Did he say where he is staying the night?   
> Ja, im ‘Ritz’. Hat voll angegeben damit, vallah. = Yes, at the Ritz. He was bragging about it, by God/I swear/I’m telling you.


	6. Cracks in the glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – your comments and kudos and bookmarks are the highlight of my week and so utterly motivating ♥ you’re all amazing! 
> 
> The “Eliezer” Q mentions in this chapter is Eliezer Yudowski, one of the leading minds in the field of artificial intelligence. More on the experiment [here](http://rationalwiki.org/wiki/AI-box_experiment), more on the Machine Intelligence Research Institute [here](https://intelligence.org/).
> 
>  ~~PS: I hope my research regarding Hebrew/Jewish names proved correct. Please let me know if that’s not the case.~~ Thanks to kuro_neko_deamon for making it 100% correct :)

The mansion’s back door is not only locked but also tightly secured. Fortunately, his minions desperately want their master back, which is why James is able to activate something called ‘Unlocker’. 

It’s obviously only a preliminary title. 

“Beware, 007,” R’s voice insists over the comms. “The device hasn’t been tested yet.”

“Q built it; it’s going to work,” James says simply, and pushes the button. 

The little console latches onto the surrounding security networks, infiltrates them, and manipulates their signals in order to allow James undetected passage through a well-hidden side door that leads into the subterranean parts of the dark house. 

Dim night lights preclude the use of a torch as James advances down sterile-looking hallways, weapon raised, until he finds an open room on his right. 

No, not a room. 

A cell. 

James catalogues the narrow cot, smooth appliances and lack of anything that might be used as either weapon or tool to engineer an escape. Not willing to miss anything, he pulls off the threadbare blankets covering an almost equally thin mattress – 

\- only to jerk back when he notices specks of crimson peppering the sheets. 

For one painful second, the red is all James sees. It fans the rage that so far has been but a simmering presence in the pit of his stomach, igniting it into a full-blown flame. 

“007, report,” R demands. “FBI is still twenty minutes out; what is your status?”

“Mazel tov.”

James turns his earpiece off. There is no need for R to witness what he is going to do to those monsters. 

*

Ziva curses in what Q knows to be Hebrew but the woman has no trouble adjusting to the new development. 

“We have two minutes before they’ll catch on. We use the front door. Quick!”

“Kian, hold onto me,” Jess tells him, already wrapping her left arm around his waist so they can take the steps at heightened speed. 

They have made it to the second floor when a shadow appears on the next flight below them. Jess tenses; Ziva aims her gun, as does the shadow, yet there is something about the movements that strike Q as familiar. 

“Don’t shoot!” he hisses, infusing his tone with as much authority as he can muster in his weakened state. “That’s my rescue party!”

“Which you apparently have little need for, Q,” Bond says. The light is sufficient to make out the contours of a smile. Q finds himself returning it. 

“I reckon it’s the thought that counts.”

“So I won’t get a kiss?”

“What, for doing your job?” Q replies, though there is mirth in his voice. 

“We need to move,” Ziva reminds them, but Bond is still watching her warily from the corner of his eyes and does not listen. 

“You can trust her,” Q implores. “We triggered the alarm; we don’t have time for you to fight over who’s the alpha here, 007.” 

Jessica chuckles, drawing Bond’s attention. “And who’s this lovely lady?”

“Don’t even think about flirting with my sister, James, no matter how much playing the knight in shining armour seems to function as an aphrodisiac for you.”

“ _Move_ ,” Ziva growls. “ _NOW._ ”

It does nothing to stave off Jess’s chuckling, now taking on a decided hysterical tinge, but it at least succeeds in spurring Bond into action. He offers to take over supporting Q with a motion of his hand, yet when Jess declines he falls into formation with Ziva on the way down the stairs. The only indication of his concern is the glance he sends Q when a low groan escapes his throat from the abrupt movements. 

Unsurprisingly, theirs is not a world that simply lets them flee unperturbed. 

Ziva has pointe, thus she sees the four men emerging from the subterranean levels first. A shot rings out, the bullet taking the target by surprise and tearing through his skull. It’s the bloke who handled the blowtorch. 

_May he rest in pieces,_ Q thinks vindictively. 

Bashir, under the cover of his mates, flings a teargas grenade over the railing and onto the ground floor. Q still has his stick and he reacts instinctively, hitting the weapon hard into the opposite direction of the front door; presumably into a living room that fills with gas instead of the hallway as Bashir intended. 

Q whirls around in time to see Bond empty another round into another guard’s chest, just as Bashir reloads his gun after knocking Ziva against a wall, poised for attack. 

“JAMES!” Q shouts, but he needn’t have bothered – Bond has long since registered the threat. 

Meanwhile Jessica found a vase to fling at Gabriel, who mock-pouts at her. 

“Oh no, that had so much sentimental value! Bless your heart!” 

Before either of them has a chance to respond, Ziva is back, targeting Gabriel this time. Q limps forward, raising the stick in the hope of getting a hit in and ignoring his sister’s protests, but he is slow and even adrenaline only goes so far. 

Gabriel clocks Ziva with the butt of his Beretta and she stumbles for the merest hint of a breath, yet that is enough to provide Gabriel with an opportunity. 

He takes it, and shoots. 

Q’s cry dies in his throat when he sees Ziva’s weapon fall from her grip, the momentum making it slitter past Q and Jessica. Q lurches, careening to the floor and bracing his fall with his hands and a grunt of pain, though it’s worth it when his fingers close around the gun. 

He spins onto his back despite the stars dancing in his field of vision, and aims. 

Gabriel does, too. 

At Jessica. 

She is struggling in his iron grip and cussing worse than Q has heard in years, until Gabriel places the barrel of the gun right against her temple, touching skin. She stills, chest heaving. 

“Now was that so hard, dollface?”

“Toss off!”

“Sweet baby Jesus, this one’s got a mouth on her! Don’t you raise ‘em right in England?” 

“Unhand her or I’ll shoot.”

Q is steadying his hold on the weapon with his other hand, so all that is keeping him upright is the strength of his core muscles. A strength that is swiftly dwindling. A faint shattering sound registers, yet there is nothing to tell whether it was James or Bashir who broke something. 

“Like you’re gonna get a single lick in,” Gabriel jeers, gesturing a bit with the Beretta like he did back in the interrogations room. A habit of is, maybe, but in any case another blunder. There is only one way to end this, even though Q wishes it were different.

He seeks Jessica’s gaze and holds it for the length of a heartbeat, a silent _Do you trust me?_ passing between them. 

“You might be Q, _mate_ ,” Gabriel sneers, “but you’re still just the skinny computer guy who thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow.”

Jess gives a minute nod, her face drained of all colour. Heart in his throat and head eerily blank, Q adjusts his aim.

“So you’re gonna do exactly as I command,” Gabriel continues, underscoring it with exactly the kind of motion Q has been waiting for. 

He exhales as he pulls the trigger. The kickback jars every single bruise of his body and for a moment Q is sure he is going to faint from the pain, but somehow, he remains awake. The bullet pierces the man’s skin right between his brown eyes. 

There is a reason Q’s marksmanship scores aren’t on any record. 

Gabriel falls onto his behind with a dull _thump_ and Jessica is kneeling beside Q the blink of an eye later. 

“Bloody hell, Kian, you nutter!”

For some reason his mind latches onto the name. “Shh, James still only knows me as Q.” 

She blinks, briefly confused, though thankfully allows the strange train of thought, asking with a grin, “So that’s him, then?” Jess shifts, presumably about to check on the agent. 

Q wonders if he should find it peculiar that he is familiar enough with the sounds of James Bond fighting that he is able to surmise, “He’s winning.”

Jess is facing him again. When did she turn around? 

Q tries to sit up yet flinches as his left side flares up with white-hot pain. 

“Fuck, you’re bleeding,” Jess gasps, her tone almost accusatory as if this is somehow his own fault, or maybe he’s just imagining things. 

“Gabriel’s bullet must have ricocheted,” he grumbles. 

He reckons the darkening edges of his vision should worry him. His mind still hasn’t caught up with the fact that a man is dead because he killed him. Murdered him. He deserves a moment, even when he can feel consciousness seeping through his fingers like sand. 

The last thing Q hears is a bullet of Bond’s Walther finding its target before his body overrides his control and everything goes black. 

*

James is taking the stairs two at a time before the thug’s body even hits the ground. The shots he heard are painting an apocalyptic picture within the confines of his mind though he pushes them away with every ounce of energy he has left. 

When he takes in the scene on the ground floor – the woman who helped them as lifeless as the mastermind behind her, Q’s sister shifting her brother into a recovery position – the sense of guilt is practically overwhelming. 

He stifles it as he checks the pulses to ensure the corpses actually are what they seem to be, then drops to a knee next to the unconscious form of his quartermaster while switching on his ear piece. 

The seven days have been hard on Q; James catalogues a broken thigh that has been splinted using gaffer tape by the looks of it, a bandaged shoulder underneath the soiled patterned shirt, a large bruise spreading over his jaw like a colourful tattoo and most worryingly, the bullet wound the sister is attempting to stop from bleeding with a piece she tore off her skirt. 

R’s voice cuts through his observations, her tone hard as steel. “007, report!”

“Hostiles eliminated, Q secure.”

R’s reaction is the only thing he can hear – a strained but happy “ _Alhamdulillah!_ ” – but James likes to imagine the rest of MI6 slumping in relief wherever they might be listening to the feed. 

“ETA on backup is ninety-five seconds.”

“We need medevac on the ground floor first.”

He reports on Q’s injuries as best as he can and when two minutes later a medic gently takes over applying pressure to the wound, their demeanour is quick and efficient, yet not frantic enough to be grounds for deeper worry. 

James still remains glued to their side. It’s not rational, he is perfectly aware of that. He just cannot seem to make his legs walk away. 

“007? I’m Special Agent Keating. I have a few questions.”

A glance is enough to gauge the man in front of him is competent, though James doesn’t trust his American counterparts enough to simply leave them to handle this. 

So James closes his eyes; takes a deep breath. When he exhales, his mind is clearer, tidied up, his focus sharp again. 

“Of course, sir.”

*

James has never been one for prolonged introspection. He knows he would question some of his life choices if he ever stopped long enough to think, so he doesn’t. It’s certainly one of the reasons he is as great at his job as he is. 

Even he turns pensive on the flight back from Georgia, however. 

He is seated across from Jessica, a narrow table separating them. Q’s sister has pulled her legs up onto the seat, hands wrapped around her thighs and a blanked covering her shoulders even though the cabin is rather warm. Whatever warmth it gives her does not prevent the tremors that course through her at irregular intervals, leaving her pale. 

He sees the family resemblance in her delicate bone structure, pretty green eyes, and dark, thick hair. She is a beautiful woman, even with dark shadows underneath her eyes and skin that is becoming unclean from lack of care. If things were different, James would not hesitate to charm her. 

She must feel his gaze on her, for she turns her head and meets his eyes. 

They haven’t really had a chance to talk, with James acting as liaison between the American Department of Defense and the British Secret Service while Jessica spent a night at the hospital for observation and the following two days making use of the psychiatrist the DOD provided. 

The team of doctors decided to keep Q sedated until his return to British soil. He will be missing his spleen, yet his femur fracture has been taken care in a much better way than MI6 would ever have been able to provide. Apparently the Americans have been toadying to Q for over a year to make him share his expertise in network security measures with them, and all the quartermaster has done was hack their systems at regular intervals to remind them their firewalls still weren’t strong enough. So now the break in his thigh has been treated with bone-setting glue that will reduce his recovery time by a staggering margin in the hopes the gesture might persuade Q to give them some pointers. 

The Americans also provided transportation back to the UK, including the medical staff to ensure Q’s health, which is why Jessica and James now have a small plane to themselves. 

James maintains eye contact, conceding to her how she wants to begin this conversation, if she wishes to do so at all. He has long since lost the knowledge of what a civilian life feels like, or how inexperienced people handle trauma.

When Jessica speaks, her voice is soft but strong. “You’re not his usual type, you know.”

“Oh?”

She doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she extends her legs briefly before crossing them underneath her while adjusting the blanket that has been jarred by the movements.

“He isn’t mine either,” James volunteers. 

“Smart?”

James chuckles and pretends the quip rings true. 

“You care about him.”

The lack of a question in her tone takes him by surprise. “I… I’m not sure.”

“Or you could.”

“Possibly.” _Probably._

Jessica’s expression hardens and James would wager another four weeks of playing Q-Branch’s lab rat that he is about to receive the first shovel talk of his life. He isn’t sure how to feel about that. 

Jessica huffs and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear from where it has fallen into her field of vision, her eyes never leaving his. 

“I know my brother’s an insufferable and arrogant git most of the time, but he saved my life more than once. He’s as happy at his current job as I’ve ever seen him. I know you’re some sort of super spy who’s probably killed an arse-load of people, but if you break his heart, I swear I’m gonna have your bollocks and serve them to his cats. Just so we’re clear.”

James does what he does best – he deflects. “And here I thought you were a nice ballerina.”

“I grew up in Barking and Dagenham; reckon I could even teach you a trick or two.” She blows out a breath, lets the moment linger for a second before she adds, “Guess I’m not a ballerina anymore.”

He arches a questioning eyebrow, a little unsettled by the swift change of topic no matter how grateful he is for it. 

“I missed about five sodding performances, didn’t I? No chance in hell they’re gonna take me back.”

“I’m sure MI6 could pull a few strings.”

But Jessica is already shaking her head. “Not sure I want that.” She laughs bitterly. “Hell, can’t even fall asleep right now. And I keep spacing out. Maybe it’s for the best, not working for a while.”

Her gaze clouds over as she glances out of the window and James is left alone with his thoughts. 

He is by no means intimidated by a slender woman who wouldn’t surpass sixty kilos when soaking wet, and part of his mind is still turning over her comment about Q saving her life, but he knows deep within his bones that sooner or later, James would give her reason to make good on her threat. 

SPECTRE ensured he learnt his lesson. There is no life outside the service for him, no retirement on the table. There is only the next mission, and sometimes Q will be the voice in his ear. James hopes that will be the case when he eventually, inevitably, reaches the end of his rope. 

For a heartbeat he contemplates running; to just restock on ammunition and hunt down the flimsy leads they have on the people responsible for assisting the Archangel, never stopping until SPECTRE and all its affiliates are but a depressing memory. 

Too bad this choice isn’t solely up to him. 

*

 _Warm_ , is the first thing Q registers. He is genuinely warm and it’s _glorious_. 

The second thing is the softness of the mattress underneath him. The quality of the sheets is hospital-cheap, a theory that the IV he can sense and the light cast wrapped around his right thigh support. 

His head is angled to the right, meaning the contour of a bedside table is the first object he sees when he opens his eyes. Q doesn’t need his glasses to identify the postcard leaning against a slim vase holding catnip, his lips twitching. 

James must be so put out that Q fainted before he had a chance to adequately swoon at the heroic rescue. 

A noise claims his attention and Q watches Eve pull her feet off the sofa that has been pushed against the wall to his right, not bothering to slip into her heels before traipsing over to the bed with a smile. 

“Welcome back. Hang on, don’t try to talk yet.”

She reaches behind the vase for a plastic cup with a straw. Q manages to grab it and take a sip by himself, feeling weirdly proud about it. Eve hands him his glasses, too, and once the world comes into focus he grabs the card, ignoring the protests of his sore muscles.

Bond bought it in Berlin, judging by the black silhouette of the Brandenburger Tor against a rainbow-coloured background and the “I Heart Berlin” script above it. Q flips it and the heart rate monitor’s blips increase in anticipation. Well, he spent who knows how long in captivity so he thinks he is allowed to be a bit silly. 

_You owe me breakfast._

Q’s brow furrows at James’s note. 

“He brought you breakfast into work, the day you went missing. That’s how we knew to check,” Eve chips in. “And before you ask, he’s fine. Your sister, too. Your parents took her home last night but M already signed off on them visiting. James is asleep on the sofa in your office, last I looked.”

“Thank you,” Q croaks, hoping he isn’t blushing too furiously. 

He looks around for the first time then and is surprised by the amount of flowers on the table that comes with the private room he appears to be in. One of the bouquets is not organic, though, rather made up of wires and scraps of metal, each flower a different shape. Something warm and fuzzy unfurls in Q’s chest as he identifies each of his staff’s particular engineering style, but what’s strange is the accompanying burning of his eyes. 

His skin feels paper-thin, somehow, and his mind is a tumble of overlapping fragments of thoughts. 

“I’ll fetch Dr Yassin, he needs to check you over; and M’s been waiting for you to wake up and fill in some gaps in our knowledge.”

It’s no request, yet Q did not expect anything else. 

Eve pauses after slipping into her shoes, her expression tight and controlled. “I swear, Q, when I got the message about the microchips I thought I’d never see you again. Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

“Very well. I’ll let the terrorists know,” he quips despite how much his throat still aches, but it’s worth it to see Eve’s face light up in startled laughter.

She makes good on her word and the next half hour passes under the scrutiny of Dr Yassin who updates Q on his healing process. He doesn’t know whether to be touched or annoyed when he hears about the bone-setting glue and the amazing things it does to his recovery time, though maybe he can lay off the Americans for a bit.

He isn’t going to miss his spleen no matter how many immunisations he now needs, and is dizzy with relief when Yassin informs him that the brand on his shoulder – apparently a second rather than third degree burn – won’t leave too much of a mark. There is even the possibility of grafts, if his skin doesn’t heal well enough for his liking. 

M’s demeanour is grave when the man enters, hands in his trouser pockets. Q would worry if it weren’t for the crinkles around his boss’s eyes. 

“You lost me a bottle of Lagavulin 21, Q,” he drawls, his tone flat enough to be serious. 

“I apologise, sir,” he replies in kind, giddy with the absurdity of the situation. “But may I enquire as to how I managed that?” 

M huffs. “You agreed to go out with Bond. I was sure he wasn’t your type, but apparently Tanner is a better judge than I am.” 

Q chuckles, and it comes out only marginally hysterical. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Q.”

“Me, too, sir,” he admits while forcing his eyes to stay dry. _Get a grip; it’s not even that touching, bloody hell._

“Now, I’m afraid I have some questions.”

It turns out to be more than ‘some’, though Q has his own to ask once M seems satisfied with grilling him on timelines, motivations, and unauthorised microchips in cat trees.

“What was her name? Ziva’s? And what happened to her body?” 

M only has to think for a moment, and he opts for her Hebrew name instead of her anglicised equivalent, which moves Q more than he can say. “Jensine bat Yitzchak ha-Kohein; born in Israel, educated in the US where she is suspected to have come into contact with SPECTRE. The Americans still have her; there was no next of kin to claim her body.”

Q parts his lips but has to swallow around the lump in his throat. “She saved me and my sister. Would it – could we arrange for a burial?”

His boss considers him for a long moment. “I take it you’d like her to be interred in Israel.”

“I promised I’d help her. She was pregnant. Please, sir.” 

His eyes are burning again. Q wants to kick himself for being such a pansy in front of a man who still isn’t entirely convinced Q is old enough to head a department without adult supervision. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” At least M’s tone is sincere. In parting, he reaches out and squeezes Q’s good shoulder, mindful to broadcast his intentions. Like Q is some sort of skittish animal. 

It leaves him only with exhaustion and a peculiar fascination with the way the sunlight falls through the window. Daylight is such a beautiful thing. 

As Eve promised, his parents and Jess drop by, yet Q must have dozed off in the time between M’s visit and theirs – but how much time? He twists, hissing when it hurts his bandaged side, but there on the wall he finally finds a clock. 11:07AM. 

He sinks back into the cushions while his visitors blink. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, but his mother is already telling him to hush and the following half-hour is filled with tears and hugs and kisses on his cheeks, and Q doesn’t restrain himself. Well, not as much. These people have seen him at his worst, and vice versa, but this is still his place of employ. His sister’s hug lingers the longest, but all things considered she seems as fine as could be expected, even with losing her job at the ballet.

“If you need anything, Jess –”

“Thanks, Kian, but… I’ve got some savings; I’ll be good for a bit.” 

He doesn’t mention the headshot he administered. 

He refuses to tell his parents that their own son is a murderer, but once they are gone (11:48AM), it’s all he can think about. _It was self-defence. He was going to shoot Jessica. No one else was there to pull the trigger._

Round and round his thoughts go, a whirl of conflicting emotions filling every fibre of his – 

A hand on his arm. Q jerks away violently and his side and shoulder throb despite the amount of pain medication he is on. He blinks, checks the clock even as his ears register a faint “Gosh, I’m sorry!” in a familiar voice. 

01:03PM. _Wait –_

“Q?”

He knows that voice. Blue eyes meet his, calm with a hint of worry. To the right, Eve is wearing a pinched expression, her tone rueful as she apologises again. 

He hums, trying to loosen his vocal chords. It’s still slightly inflamed, yet nothing compared to how hoarse it felt during his time with Gabriel. “I must have drifted. I’m terribly sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Eve insists kindly. “I touched you. I wasn’t thinking.” A pause. “We brought food? Well, James brought food, I brought you some spare clothes as well as your personal laptop and tablet. There’re some adorable videos of Turing and Linux on there.”

His chest clenches at the thought of the two of them all alone for what M told him amounted to ten days. Yassin said he needed to stay for at least another three, four more, but Q swears to find a way to be sent home earlier than that. If everything fails, he can ask Bond for advice. 

Who is looking at him, face devoid of pity or confusion. “Do you want us to go?”

Q shakes his head vehemently. Then he forces his muscles to unclench and attempts to smile. “I still owe you some swooning, I believe.”

The blank expression gives way to something almost fond. “Definitely.”

“I heard you made James’s presence in Georgia practically moot,” Eve adds with a grin. “Only you, Q.”

“Well,” he says, sighs, and barges on. “Escaping on my own proved impossible. So I turned it into a real-life AI box experiment.” At their questioning gazes, he explains, “Eliezer devised it – uh, he’s a researcher, we email sometimes… And he developed an experiment to show that an artificial intelligence can’t be contained by simply locking it up, so we, well the world, _has_ to think about friendly AI and – anyway. It would get out, the AI, be it by tricking the human guards, or by bribing them. I didn’t need much imagination to see myself as the caged-in test subject.”

“That’s why the woman was helping you escape,” James concludes, and Q tells them about how he thinks she was pregnant and used her shift on watch to initiate their escape. 

“It was brave of her,” Bond states, and from anyone else it would be nothing but a placating phrase yet somehow from him it sounds like the highest praise. Q blinks until his eyes clear again. 

Eve cites the need for her presence at a meeting and leaves them alone with an assortment of breakfast foods, no hint of porridge in sight for which Q is incredibly grateful. They eat in comfortable silence, with James neither slowing his own pace when it becomes evident that Q still has trouble manoeuvring cutlery nor offering to help. 

“I’m afraid I’m rather dreary company at the moment.”

“You don’t need to apologise, Q.”

“Sorry, I –” He groans, annoyed at himself again. He wishes he could just reboot his brain like a computer. Delete the memories, reformat the hard disk, go back to his old self. 

“How are you feeling?”

Q fixes the agent with an incredulous look. “ _Feeling_?” 

“I mean…” James shifts in the visitor chair – hang on, is 007 genuinely _fidgeting_? 

“Why are you really here, James?” Q asks. “And no excuses. They didn’t break me, last I checked.”

Bond takes a deep breath, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His blank expression dissolves, a myriad of emotions seeping through the cracks that Q has not the first bleeding chance to disentangle. 

“I’m the reason they found you.”

“What? That’s nonsense –”

“SPECTRE was tailing _me_ ,” James continues, talking over Q’s protests. “Have been since I got back. The analysts don’t know yet how they made the leap to you, but I was at the heart of it. I’m always at the heart of it.”

Bond falls silent. It only takes Q a few seconds to realise why the man looks like Turing got his claws on all of his bespoke suits. 

“Is this the part where you tell me that almost fifty per cent of the people you get involved with end up dead within three months of knowing you, and warn me off asking you out to a third date?”

The self-deprecation consuming those blue eyes almost hurts to look at. “It’s a full hundred for those I cared about.”

“So what?”

“So I need you to be sure. Before we reach the point of no return.”

“Aren’t you being a tad too dramatic, James?” 

But the agent’s jaw remains clenched. Q has seen the exact same expression numerous times, usually whenever 007 has made up his mind about a particular course of action that will defy the laws of physics and nothing anyone throws at him will stop him from following through. 

Q heaves a sigh, bringing up a hand to adjust his glasses. “If you’ve already made a decision, why’re you still here? Why aren’t you on a sodding plane right now?”

James chuckles humourlessly. “I did think about it. It’s your decision, too, but you’re in no condition to make it now.”

“I’m perfectly –”

“ _Fine?_ ” James snaps, suddenly on his feet. Q flinches at the raised volume of his voice, yet 007 isn’t chastised in the slightest. “No one’s _fine_ after what you’ve been through.”

“Well, excuse me if I haven’t had a chance to drink my body weight in alcohol yet, Bond. I’m sure I’ll be good to go in a few days, since getting pissed always seems to work so well for you.”

“Don’t even think about taking me as a role model.”

“What the bloody hell do you want from me, then?” 

James inhales sharply but whatever retort he was about to utter never passes his lips. Instead, he blows out the breath slowly as he unclenches his fists, nostrils flaring. Q keeps up his glare. 

“I want you to recover. You spent a week in captivity. They tortured you. They threatened your sister. You _killed_ someone. Take some time to process that, as much as you bloody well need, not as much as you think should suffice, and then decide whether or not I’m worth the risk.” 

“What if –” Q begins only to be interrupted again. 

“You’re in no state to give consent to anything right now.”

Q almost tells the man to toss off, but the crux of the matter is that Bond is _right_ , the self-righteous berk. Even without the chaos that stands in for his mind at the moment, Q is only sure of two things – that he never wants to be cold ever again, and that he misses his cats like he never missed anything in his life. Imagining going on a date, let alone do anything else with the man he has been crushing on for months? All his head supplies is static. 

James must have gathered from whatever Q’s face did that he conceded the point to Bond, for he loses some of his agitation and makes to clean up the rubbish that remains from their meal. Once finished, he straightens his tie and gives Q a soft smile. 

“I’ll be back soon.”

Q blinks. “Where are you going?”

“Beijing. Following a lead our analysts found. _After_ I decided against immediately accepting another mission.”

Q laughs. The action feels strange, but wonderful at the same time. “Be nice to my staff, 007.”

“Aren’t I always?” James replies with his patented cocky grin, and exits the hospital room. 

The conversation leaves Q drained even though it ended on a positive note; his head seems full and completely empty at the same time. His skin is still paper-thin and he longs for clothes that are his own, not the generic half-polyester blend of the gown that currently covers his body. He recalls Eve mentioning cat videos, so Q retrieves his tablet and opens the library. 

Linux rarely makes a sound, yet she meows heart-wrenchingly at the camera, as if begging Eve to bring her owner back. Q wipes at his eyes aggressively, but it’s no use. He closes the video and just sits there for a few minutes until his breath isn’t stuttering anymore. 

_Bugger this._

All that awaits him for the few days medical wants to keep him here is bloody _rest_ , but the nature of his location precludes that from the start. There will be nothing restful in the medical wing of the CNS tower where anyone could walk in on him disassociating or worse, crying like his body seems to desperately want to. 

Dressing himself is a production in itself, though thankfully Eve is a goddess who brought the loosest clothes Q owns short of actual pyjamas. Moving about this much hurts despite the staggering dose of pain medication he is currently on, but the suffering will be worth it once he has signed himself out and is curled up on his own bed with his own cats, not mere digital likenesses. 

The only problem will be transporting the bag of clothes, his laptop and tablet, as well as the catnip bouquet and the flowers from Q-Branch from here to his flat. 

A few short commands allow him access to the building’s surveillance feeds. Q finds Nicolas taking orders from the analysts and select minions who are settling in for another SPECTRE-induced night shift. _Perfect._

Five minutes later, the agency’s Archives and Files Manager steps up to where Q is staring down Dr Yassin. “You asked for me, sir?”

“I saw you’re about to pick up the department’s food orders, Nicolas. Would you mind dropping me off at my flat before you do that?” 

“You’re being released?” Nicolas wonders, shooting an insecure glance at the man in the white coat. 

Yassin’s pointed, “No,” goes ignored. Q already updated his file and included a ‘released against medical advice’, so nothing the man says is going to stop him. He also activated a protocol that will confirm his presence at his flat every hour given the remaining risk to his person. He doubts SPECTRE is going to just accept he got away once they realise there was another copy of the files he officially deleted.

Still somewhat weary, Nicolas takes Q’s bag, catnip clasped between the straps, as well as the metal flowers so that Q can limp towards the nearest lift. 

“I appreciate the help,” he tells Nicolas once safely buckled into the seat of the young man’s Prius. Who the hell drives a Prius? 

“It’s no problem, sir. I’m glad to help.”

“In that case – I could use an update that isn’t heavily edited with the aim of sparing my delicate PTSD-riddled sensibilities.”

Nicolas starts out haltingly, obviously unsure whether or not this is a good idea, but halfway to Q’s building the young man is chattering away about all vital developments that occurred over the past ten days, from the progress 009 is making in Cancún (or lack thereof) to the latest office gossip. 

The concierge does a double take as Q enters, Nicolas trailing after him. “Mr Bradshaw!”

“Good evening, Michael,” Q says, putting on his most placating smile. “Any mail left for me that Miss Moneypenny hasn’t picked up?”

Michael shakes his head. “It’s good to have you back, sir.”

Q thanks the man, then leads the way to the lift, explaining to Nicolas about renting the flat under the alias Colin Bradshaw. He instructs his helper to leave the bags next to the door – he trusts him as much as any other colleague, yet there is no need for frivolously showing off his most recent and still fairly experimental security upgrades to everyone. Q waits until the lift doors are sliding shut before placing his left palm underneath the peephole (that is actually a camera) where a biometric scanner reads his palm print and, in combination with his access code, grants him access. It also works for Eve, and James, yet the latter has yet to be informed of his privilege. 

Stepping through the doorway and into his hallway feels like a weight falling off Q’s shoulders and for a second he just breathes in the familiar scent of tea and fur.

It doesn’t take long for Turing and Linux to emerge from their hiding spots – his bedroom, apparently – and start assaulting him in the sweetest possible way. Q lowers himself to the floor right there in the hallway, mindful of his leg, and reaches out. They remain dubious for a moment, though as soon as their noses recognise his scent he gets a lapful of roommates. 

“I missed you, too,” Q whispers, and this time he doesn’t care when the tears well up. He buries his face in Turing’s fur and finally, cathartically, lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boys… *hugs-Q* *hugs-James* 
> 
> Special thanks to My Sister MD for medical advice; the phone call went something [like this](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/post/133597570968/conversations-with-fic-writers)… ([x](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/post/117626730089/conversations-with-fic-writers), [x](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/post/81889011096/conversations-with-fanfic-writers))
> 
> PS: A bit of advertising to bridge the time until chapter 7: my beta and I decided to share [a co-written Johnlock story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5271254/chapters/12163208), in case any among you like vampire!John; and my beloved other sister has authored a [STID Omegaverse AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1012908/chapters/2011066) (Khan/Kirk) that is one of favourite fics in that genre.


	7. Run through my blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I read that there is a type of pastry in Britain called ‘spotted dick’, I just couldn’t resist… *giggles* 
> 
> Translations:   
> (Estoy) de acuerdo = I agree  
> loco = mad, crazy  
> cierto = sure, of course

Q only notices that someone is at his door because Turing pauses in his fur care and perks up, which Q catches out of the corners of his eyes. 

He finishes the current line of code that, once complete, will render the abomination that moonlights as the American Ministry of Defence’s firewall considerably less porous, then pulls up the feed from his security system with a few short key strokes.

The person he sees standing in front of the door makes him do a double take. 

“A bloody house call? On a Saturday?” Q asks Turing who remains unimpressed and returns to licking his flank. Linux is even less forthcoming considering she is spaced out on top of the smallest cat tree, high from the catnip twig Q gave to her twenty minutes ago. 

Slightly worried, he overrides the locks and opens his door from his position on the sofa where he spent most of the past two and a half days, surrounded by cushions, blankets, two laptops, three tablets, his flat screen television mounted on the wall above the second sofa, and of course his pain medication and a fresh cup of tea. 

It’s not that Q cannot walk – quite the contrary, he is surprisingly mobile and periodically even energetic; thus his bout of tinkering with American firewalls – but he only finished his physical therapy exercises an hour ago and is still rather exhausted. 

He hears a _click_ as the door shuts, then footsteps. M’s gait is slow, and when he enters the open space of the living room Q can see his gaze wandering, taking in the nerdy accents to the pre-furnished flat with a curious expression. 

“Surprised, sir?” he prods, genuinely curious and lacking anything better to say. Maybe M imagined him living in something akin to the Batcave? 

“Frankly, I half-expected to be greeted by a Dalek.” 

Q chuckles. “I could offer you a Cybermen mug, if you care for tea?”

At his boss’s nod, Q sheds his blankets and places his laptop on the seat next to him in preparation for limping to his kitchen. His respect for M grows infinitely when the man refrains from extending patronising offers of fetching the mug himself. He does follow Q, however, placing a plastic bag on the kitchen island that is emanating a delicious smell. 

“I had a lunch meeting,” M explains, “and Miss Moneypenny asked me to bring something with me.”

His co-workers seem to severely doubt Q’s ability to feed himself, he muses. Well. In light of the empty state of his fridge, they might have a point. 

“Thank you, sir. I’ll eat it prior to my next dose of painkillers.”

M nods, accepting his steaming mug with a fond chuckle as he inspects the Cyberman print. He was less amused in 2012 when he learnt that Q had actually installed safety protocols for the case of an alien invasion, which the hoi polloi of MI6 quickly dubbed “Dalek Protocol”. That is what Q gets for issuing the corresponding memo right before the Doctor Who Christmas Special airs. 

He returns to his nest with M taking a seat across from him under the suspicious eyes of Turing. The cat doesn’t vacate the armchair, though, proving once again that he has splendid people skills. 

“You can stop looking so worried, Q; this really is a simple check-in.” M takes a tentative sip. “I want to know how my quartermaster is doing.”

“A lot better, sir.” He isn’t even lying – sleeping through the night still proves a challenge and his endurance could be higher, yet all things considered escaping medical was the best course of action. 

“You look it, too. Though I thought you should be recovering.” A pointed look at the unmarked files littering the space between them. 

“This _is_ me recovering, sir.”

M arches an eyebrow. “Upgrading our friends’ network security is restful?”

Q snorts, waving a dismissive hand. “I could patch their holes in my sleep. Besides,” he adds, sobering a little, “they arranged the burial with minimal fuss.” More than that, the Americans even procured a spot at a graveyard near Jerusalem. “Fixing my leg didn’t hurt either. I couldn’t imagine limping for the next few months.”

“Speaking of which, Dr Yassin said to tell you to come in on Monday for a follow-up.”

“I could –”

“ _Just_ the follow-up,” M interrupts with a stern glance. 

“But –”

“Your team is doing a very good job handling everyday operations without you, Q. Given the additional responsibilities awaiting you once the merger with MI5 transitions into its final phase, you should be proud, not spying on them.”

Q feels his face heat. “I wasn’t spying.”

M remains unimpressed. 

“There was nothing on the telly…”

“So you prepared a bowl of popcorn and witnessed the incredible cock-up that was 007’s last mission?” 

Q winces, his mind immediately replaying the events he witnessed on his large screen the night before. “Bond didn’t make her commit suicide.”

M heaves a sigh, turning his mug in his hands. “I know… Doesn’t change that our strongest lead went up in smoke. Literally.”

“There’ll be others.” At least that is what he has been telling himself since last night. No leads mean the threat to Q’s life remains large, looming over him yet decidedly out of reach. 

“On a lighter note,” his boss says, the crease in his forehead smoothing over, “I’m to tell you from Farid to keep your cats away from the flowers. Apparently their claws interfere with the sensors of that spider thing.”

Craning his neck, Q’s gaze finds the bouquet a moment later, still on the low cabinet next to his workstation where he placed it after returning home three nights ago. Now that M mentions it, the height is perfect for either Turing or Linux to play with the protruding elements, including one of Farid’s spiders. The gadget in question has folded its eight legs to form a tip and give the air of a tulip rather than an arachnid. It is intended for stealthy monitoring by remote-controlling the small audio-visual recording device endowed with a vast array of sensors and shaped like an actual spider.

“I have another message to pass on,” M says, his face too blank to determine whether he minds playing owl or not. “Miss Moneypenny is going to visit for dinner with her partner –”

“Will Farid –?”

“Yes, he’ll take care of any surveillance footage. I believe the couple will take the tube; that should provide ample opportunity for your protégé to stretch his wings.” 

Q doesn’t doubt that for a second. The bloke may only be a few weeks past his nineteenth birthday, but he is shaping up to be a great asset, as the software he wrote for his spiders proves. Q thinks they will make it onto the official list of MI6 equipment by the end of the quarter. 

“Pardon, you were saying, sir?” 

“Miss Moneypenny said she expects an extensive explanation as to why she has been asked to hand you a pack of spotted dick as a get-well present from Wenham in accounting.”

Later he is going to blame it on the pain medication, but right now Q can’t help the snigger that escapes him and leaves him wheezing and blushing under M’s deadpan gaze. 

“Sorry, sir,” he coughs. “It’s, uh, it’s an inside joke?”

For a second, his boss seems tempted to ask for full disclosure – if only to satisfy his own curiosity – yet he lets it go for which Q is bloody grateful. He wouldn’t even be able to explain the actual origin, but at one point early on the only thing left in Daryl’s apartment, food-wise, were spotted dick puddings. You would think two adults could have made that discovery without a bleeding giggling fit, but alas… 

Q diverts the conversation in the hopes of wheedling an update out of M (who doesn’t need to know that Q has been bugging Nicolas via text for the past forty-eight hours) and receives only the merest hint of information along with a blatant refusal of allowing him to return ahead of schedule. 

“Medical said no strenuous activity for two weeks, Q, and that includes work.”

“A lot of my responsibilities aren’t strenuous –”

“You stand all day.”

“I’ll get a chair.”

“You’re on enough pain medication to impair your reflexes and judgement. Helping out the Americans is fine, but I cannot allow you on official MI6 business. That is a lawsuit I do not wish to have to handle.”

Q grumbles, clearing his throat apologetically when his boss purses his lips at the abhorrent display of petulance, and admits defeat. 

For now. 

*

The fact that M allowed Eve to bring her partner to tonight’s visit speaks volumes, though even if Sam will be read in one day does not mean Q can simply leave confidential files all over his flat. 

By the time Eve and Sam arrive, carrying the aforementioned spotted dick along with a large homemade casserole, Q has tidied up, showered, changed the dressing on his side and thigh, and lost seventeen minutes to staring at the brand mark on his left shoulder. 

“Spill,” Eve demands as soon as introductions are done and Sam is acquainting himself with the oven. “Why did Wenham from accounting give me lasciviously named puddings for you?”

Thankfully, Q had time to prepare for this, quickly determining that there is no way around being truthful. 

“We used to have a thing, Daryl and I. Remember that time you dragged me to that club and we bumped into him?”

“Yes, and you said he wasn’t your type!”

“Only to ensure you wouldn’t win any tally – no, don’t pretend you didn’t place a wager of some kind on the outcome of that night! I know you better than that.”

Eve concedes the point with a tilt of her head. 

“We developed a casual relationship whenever he wasn’t shagging anyone insisting on monogamy. Spotted dick became our weekend food of choice for reasons that I doubt you wish to hear –”

“De acuerdo!” Sam agrees from the kitchen. 

“In other words, don’t read too much into this. Just blokes being silly.” 

He pointedly limps towards his living room and after a beat, Eve follows. Unfortunately the glint in her eye means this conversation is by no means over. 

For now she contends herself with watching her boyfriend and best friend meet for the first time, something Q has been anticipating for quite a while. He may know all there is to Samuel Vázquez down to his browser history and BBC iPlayer watch list, yet this is still no equivalent to meeting the man in person. 

“Colin, Eve tells me you’re a computer genius?”

“One could say that.”

“So the next time all technology’s turned on me, I know who to ask?”

Eve chuckles. “I think telling you to switch it on and off again’s a tad above his salary class.” 

Q feels his eyebrows climb towards his hairline as Sam turns his palms out. “I’m just one of those folks. You know, beamers don’t turn on for me, my laptop crashes every few weeks. Drives me loco, I can tell you.”

“I’m afraid even I can’t change your aura,” Q teases, finding himself rather taken with the fellow. True, his enthusiasm for football and rugby borders on unhealthy, but the way he looks at Eve and clearly adores her makes up even for his complete lack of basic online safety know-how. 

Good thing Q tweaked his antivirus programme a bit. 

From his sniffing about, Q has also gleaned that Sam is only weeks away from buying a ring, obviously torn between several different options. His instincts are good, yet he is missing some essential information, so when Eve excuses herself to the loo, Q leans forward conspiratorially. 

“She hates diamonds,” he simply says, since explaining that the aversion stems from a particularly gruesome mission in Sierra Leone will have to be left to Eve for once Sam is in the know. “She’s fond of pearls, but adores sapphire and jade more. If you really want to impress her, look for an impactite, gemstones from space.” 

It only takes two seconds for the man to catch on. When he does, his eyes widen and his lips curl into a blinding smile. Q has to hand it to Eve – the bloke is handsome.

“Thank you, Colin.”

Eve returns and cuddles up against Sam’s side while the man kisses the crown of her head. They are so utterly besotted and happy, something Q cannot stand to bear witness to in public yet finds himself mentally cooing over in the privacy of his flat. He wonders if James and he could ever reach such a point, being so accustomed to the other’s presence and happy enough to annoy innocent bystanders. Or bysitters, in this case. 

“Colin?”

“Oh, sorry – I drifted.”

“You were smiling, amigo, so it couldn’t have been bad.”

Q licks his lips. “No, it wasn’t.”

Eve squints. “Were you thinking about James?”

Sam clearly recognises the name. “Oh, that bloke who spent the night a few months ago?”

Now Q is intrigued. “He spent the night?”

“Cierto; why let him waste money on a hotel when we have a perfect guest room?”

“It was his first night back in London,” Eve explains with a pregnant look. 

“Sí, I think he said something about a bad breakup. You’re interested in him?” 

Turing choses that moment to jump onto the sofa, demanding attention which Q doles out with abandon. It allows him a moment to choose his next words carefully. 

“I am. We went on a date right before my accident. He backed off right after; apparently he doubts I’m able to know what I want at the moment.”

Eve remains silent – she already listened to Q rant despite his concession that James did the right thing. 

Sam’s smile doesn’t falter. “He seems like a man who won’t mind waiting until you figured it out, mate.”

“Have you?” Eve prompts. “Figured it out?”

Q swallows, glancing down at his lap where Turing is starting to purr. When he looks up again, he smiles at the couple. “I have.”

*

Her eyes were blue. It took James until her final moments to realise, and now the information will haunt him in his sleep. 

Other details will fade into obscurity within a week’s time; after all, the woman is but one link in a long chain of people whose death James was privy to. Though her eyes will stay with him. 

He deserves nothing less. Her death, albeit not the result of his actions, can be attributed to him regardless. Collateral damage, caught in the undertow as he navigates the world. 

To think there were a handful of days when he genuinely thought being with Q might be on the table for him. He was so optimistic when he boarded the plane to China. But the quartermaster has a keen mind, values logic over emotion. Eventually he, too, will come to the inevitable conclusion that the risk associated with being the recipient of James’s affections by no means outweighs the potential merits. 

“Anything else, sir?” 

The cashier’s smile is polite in that rehearsed-to-death sort of way, showing off two rows of perfectly white teeth. James shakes his head, both in response to her question and in an attempt to clear his head. 

He pays and proceeds to his gate through thongs of fellow early travellers. 

James could care less about the building he blew up. Too bad the Chinese do, so he booked the first available flight out of the country before local authorities even arrived on the scene. He sleeps for most of the twelve-hour flight, a blessing delivered by a bottle of tax-free, high-end scotch. 

Once on English soil he heads straight to MI6 where M lets him stew for almost twenty minutes before gracing him with his presence and a stern debrief. 

“I want your report by the end of the day, 007.”

“Yes, sir.”

James passes by Q-Branch on his way to his car, still securely parked in the employee lot next to that beautiful motorbike that never seems to see the light of day. He returns all but his watch in good condition and escapes immediately after, almost ploughing over that bland research assistant whose name James never caught, since Tess looks as if hugging him is a definite option. 

Writing up his report is no problem. James spews out a few hundred words in his patented, coarse style that strips the convoluted mess of the past few days down to its bare essentials with no room for remorse or useless sentimentality. After hitting send, he retrieves the half-empty bottle from his luggage and pours himself a generous glass since there is no one there to see him as he stands at the window and gazes out across the Thames. 

The chime of his doorbell takes him by surprise. 

Considering the concierge didn’t call ahead, there are only two people who could have rung, and James doubts Eve would sacrifice her boyfriend’s free Sunday just to watch him drink. 

“Q,” James greets, as dispassionately as he is capable of. 

The quartermaster looks considerably better tonight, colour high in his cheeks and hair apparently freshly washed. He is clad in a pair of soft-looking cotton trousers as well as a curious sweater from Cambridge University that peaks James’s interest. The bruise on his jaw has faded into a sickly yellow but also shrunk in size, and the only sign of his broken thigh are the outlines of the cast visible underneath his trousers. 

“Good evening, James.”

_James_. Not _Bond_ , or _007_. 

James does not bother faking a smile. Judging by the weight of Q’s gaze, the other man is perfectly aware of what went down in Beijing. 

“What can I do for you, Q?”

The corners of his lips twitch. “You can follow me downstairs. I’ll even allow you to take that bottle with you in case you wish to spike the tea. I’m afraid I’m still on too many pills to participate.”

When all James does is squint, Q barges on, “Then we’re going to agree on a film, call for takeaway, and settle in for the evening.” 

James exhales slowly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Q.”

“I think it’s a perfectly good idea. Or would you rather I leave you to your manpain and brooding?”

“I’m not brooding,” James protests, to which Q replies by aiming a meaningful glance over his shoulder into the dimly lit apartment with a single tumbler adorning a coffee table. He heaves a sigh. “I’m not good company at the moment.”

“Neither was I last Wednesday, and I remember a certain gentleman staying for breakfast anyway. At two o’clock in the afternoon. Who of us is more ridiculous?”

There is another rebuff on his tongue, yet the intensity of Q’s green eyes gives James pause. He takes in the man’s straight posture, slightly at odds with the twitching hands that Q obviously has no idea what to do with and betray a residual nervousness James has rarely seen come to the surface. It is overshadowed, however, by the determination in the man’s features. This is the Q James has heard about in hushed tales at MI6, the department head fighting tooth and nail for his budget or to push one of his minion’s inventions for approval. 

Q has made his decision. It just isn’t the decision James was sure he would reach. 

“You’re not running,” James states, aware that he is currently less than suave. 

“Quite the contrary. How else am I supposed to keep up with a daft idiot like you?”

“Do you insult all your dates?”

Lips twist into a coy smirk. “Only the special ones.”

Their eyes meet across the threshold and something in James shifts. “Let me grab my phone.”

He leaves the scotch where it is. 

*

“You cleaned,” is the first thing that escapes him once Q let him into his flat. 

“It wasn’t just for you. Eve and Sam came by yesterday.”

“M allowed it?”

The quartermaster nods, flicking the kettle on and pulling out a second mug after conferring with James (who generally prefers coffee, though he doesn’t trust Q’s culinary skills that far, if he has any in the first place). “I advised him on gemstones while Eve was freshening up.”

_Sneaky bastard._ “Which tally are you a part of, then? Pre, post, or Valentine itself?”

The remark elicits a positively devious grin. “Pre.”

James nods in approval. “Then we’re going to share the pot along with three other clever souls.” 

“I’d suggest we drink to that, but…” He indicates the not-yet boiling kettle. “Uh, food? I mean… We should call for something.”

And Q’s blush is back, just the faintest darkening of his cheeks. James decides not to make it worse just yet; instead settling on a restaurant and placing the order while Q finishes their beverages. 

“You mentioned something about a film?” he prompts, looking around and wondering if he missed a DVD cabinet in his initial sweep during his first visit last year. 

Q laughs outright. “I gave up on hard copies once I discovered I could hack pretty much every streaming service in the world, or production studios if I want to watch something that’s yet to be released.”

James thinks he should have gathered as much. The limited number of books in the flat also point to a habit of downloading electronic copies. Utterly philistine, in James’s opinion, but to each his own. 

“So, uh,” Q continues, limping his way over to the living room. “What kind of films do you like?”

James has to stifle the impulse to lend Q a hand. If his aversion to being helped into coats is any indication, patronising him now would go over equally poorly. 

“What, wasn’t that in my file?”

Q rolls his eyes. “Yes, right under ‘favourite colour’, ‘music preferences’, and your replies to a Monarchy-themed version of ‘bed, wed, behead’.”

“Clearly, Kate stands no chance against me,” James deadpans before challenging, “Why don’t you guess?” 

He watches as the other man arranges himself on the sofa amidst a veritable nest of pillows. The heating has also been turned up high; good thing that James left his jacket in his flat. He can always unbutton his white shirt and roll up his sleeves if needs be. 

A competitive spark flickers over Q’s face. “Eclectic, I’d say. I doubt you enjoy anything involving espionage. Nothing sentimental or tear jerking either; but something artsy. Preferably violent. You don’t care much for art house cinema but watch them anyway so you can pretend to like them if a cover requires it.” 

“Surprisingly on point.” The admission gets him a delighted grin. James deems it safe to sit down on Q’s left, facing the telly, with a respectable distance between them. The sofa is comfortable, much like James’s own. “What about you?”

“Well, I’m sure you already gathered I like Star Trek.”

“I think I recall something…”

“Yes, make fun of the science fiction fan, please, go ahead.”

“Do you watch superhero films, too?” James cannot help but wonder, only to smirk at the darkening tips of Q’s ears. 

“I enjoy picking them apart one violation of the laws of physics at a time.”

“Well, I don’t care for blokes in daft costumes.”

“There goes my plan of drooling over Ryan Reynolds for a few hours,” Q sighs, but the corners of his eyes are crinkling. 

“What a pity.”

They eventually agree on the newest Tarantino film after James admits he hasn’t had a chance to see it in the theatres yet and spend three hours with eight hateful bounty hunters in post-Civil War Wyoming. At one point their food arrives, which Q manages to consume with more grace than the last time James witnessed him handling cutlery. He clears away the dishes, cutting off all of James’s offers to help, though when he sits back down the distance between them has obviously decreased. 

The forward move sends a thrill down James’s spine and he leans closer himself, not touching but a definite presence next to the other man. 

He almost forgot about Turing and Linux. Apparently jostled from sleep elsewhere, he hears soft paws traipse across the hardwood floor of Q’s flat, munch on some food, then slink towards the sofa. Turing glares at James and tucks himself into the space between Q’s extended leg and the sofa’s armrest. Linux, meanwhile, sniffs the air until James reaches out like he did before, then pushes against his outstretched palm. It means James is leaning forward and has to twist his head to still keep up with the action on screen, but the lack of elegance pays off when the cat decides he is worthy and climbs onto his lap. 

“Beware, she sheds,” Q cautions, an eye on James’s trousers. 

He shrugs. “That’s why God invented dry cleaners.”

Q’s brow furrows. “You ascribe many of the wonders of modern technology to a mystical entity of dubious existence.” 

“You and your minions define words in odd ways.”

That startles a laugh out of the man and James thinks there might have been a moment growing between them if it hadn’t been for the plot twist unfolding on the telly that claimed their attention. 

As the credits roll, Q turns up the light in the room with a few deft strokes on his tablet screen, only a little to compensate for the darkened screen, yet neither of them rises given the fur balls pinning them in place. 

James marvels at how easy conversation flows between them, much like it did during their first date at the restaurant. Maybe it’s because Q is perfectly aware of what James does for a living, rendering any need for pretence moot. James has rarely felt more like he was actually being himself than he does now, though he wonders if the same ease will carry over into more serious matters. Thus, when their banter on the merits of valuing style over story in visual arts trickles off, he changes course. 

“Don’t get me wrong; I understand why Yassin put me on two weeks medical leave, but it’s utter bollocks! I’m fine to work,” Q complains while James rubs Linux’ belly. “Of course my sleep patterns are somewhat irregular and I disassociate at times, but that’s perfectly normal, as various sources assure me. I can’t just sit about twiddling my thumbs.” 

“One empathises.”

“Thank you,” Q says with a vengeance, then huffs and focuses on scratching Turing’s ears again. 

“How is Jessica?” James probes a few moments later, half expecting to be shut down immediately yet luck – or maybe the mellowing effects of pain medication and good food – is on his side. 

“I believe she’s doing… Oh, I have no sodding idea,” Q groans, closing his eyes briefly and running a hand through his hair while the other adjusts his glasses. “She seems all right, but she’s too apathetic. It’s disconcerting and I haven’t got a clue how to help.”

On second thought, maybe steering the conversation in this direction was not the brightest idea James had tonight. All he can offer is a shrug and tell Q to ensure she knows he is there for her. 

The man nods, biting his lip. The gesture makes him look younger, more like the boy with spots James thought was joking. Never mind that Q is, in fact, about fifteen years James’s junior; he prefers not to dwell on that particular gem of information. 

“Jess said she talked with you on the plane.”

“Oh?”

“I’m afraid she won’t be joining your fan club any time soon, James, but I think you caught her at an inopportune moment in her life.”

James snorts before he can think better of it. “You could say that.” He sobers quickly, silence stretching between them. They are almost facing each other since Q folded his uninjured leg underneath his body, something that changed the angle of his position. The low lighting casts Q’s features in sharp shadows. 

“Jessica mentioned something, on the flight,” James begins slowly. Q meets his gaze, a silent permission to continue. “She said you saved her life; it sounded literal. Now I’m curious.” He doesn’t stretch the first syllable. That joke is too low. 

The other man swallows, not breaking eye contact, but James can see indecision seep into his features. “It’s a long story.”

He nods down at the cat in his lap. By now, Linux has curled up and snuggled against James’s stomach, shedding worse than he expected, but too soothing a presence for him to care. “I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to.”

“Are you implying that a Double-oh is no match against my cat?”

“Kindness is a weapon, too, Q.”

That gets him a quirked eyebrow after a beat. “Uh-huh.”

“So?”

Q huffs, shifting a little in his seat so he is facing him even more, just as James realises he is holding his breath in anticipation. The sudden awareness gives way to a sense of elation – Q has decided to share personal information, which is quite the occurrence, in the scope of things. 

“I’m sure you gathered by now that I didn’t grow up rich,” the quartermaster begins, and he says that with the sort of defiance James has encountered in many whose success was self-made. “In fact, money was always tight, especially after my sister was born. And I… I didn’t have the most reasonable circle of acquaintances in my youth.” 

_Acquaintances_ , James notes. Not _friends_. 

“I said I was working an honest job while frankly, I was exploiting the flaws of the early internet age.”

“The quartermaster of MI6, a juvenile delinquent,” James cannot help but comment. He is less surprised than others might presume – the ease with which Q broke regulations for him in the past speaks volumes, if one knows how to listen.

Yet Q’s lips purse and he ducks his head. “It’s worse than that. You see, I’m six years older than Jess; my parents worked a lot, so I had to look after her quite frequently. Keeping her safe was my responsibility, too, and I wanted more for her than… Well. She fell in love with ballet when she was five – free summer classes at the community centre – but after a while her instructors couldn’t teach her anything new. She dreamed of attending ballet school, which was expensive, but the alternative was that she stayed among her friends who…” Q gives an eloquent half-shrug. “I made sure she had the funds when they accepted her. Ma and Ta thought I was working odd jobs about town, fixing computers and what have you, but in actuality most of what I did was perfectly illegal.”

“So that’s why you’re so good at network security? You spent your youth capitalising on its weaknesses?”

Q smiles like he can’t stop the pride he feels no matter how morally dubious his actions were. To James it’s incredibly endearing. “I was a bloody legend in the dark net. The money was brilliant; our car breaking down didn’t spell catastrophe anymore, I could buy equipment, go to the cinema… but what I really wanted was to go to university.”

James’s eyes dart to the Cambridge hoodie the other man is wearing. Q chuckles. “Sorry; I didn’t think of spoilers when I put that on today.”

“I’m not here for the summary, Q. How did you get in?”

“Well, considering I spent most my time rising to black hat fame, some of it even in my pyjamas, if we’re being petty,” he adds with a twinkle in his eyes that quickly gives way to a more sombre mood, “it shouldn’t be surprising that my grades were lacklustre. Still good, yet not scholarship material. So I, uh… put my feelers out. Looked for jobs with higher risk and proportionally higher pay.”

With every word, Q draws in on himself more. James can’t imagine anything he could have done to warrant this amount of shame, and he simply waits until Q continues, wringing his hands in his lap. 

“Someone offered me a million quid. I was sixteen and daft and angry at the system and the world, bloody hell, of course I said yes.”

“What did they want you to do?”

“Oh, just copy some files.”

James tenses. He has a theory where this might be heading. Given Q’s age, it must have been late 2000, maybe early 2001. Q clears his throat and straightens his spine. For all his bravado and despite the fact that whatever he did got him where he is today, his deeds still appear to weigh heavily on him. 

“It wasn’t even me who got caught.” Another flicker of shame before it dims a little, replaced by the shade of arrogance James has so far only seen on Q. “If it had been just me, I would’ve got away with it. What I didn’t know was that the Ministry of Defence had been shadowing my contact for months, so when I made the drop they arrested him, and of course me, too. They had enough evidence to try me for treason and lock me up for the rest of my existence, never mind my age.”

James swallows. “What did you take, Q?”

The quartermaster finally looks at him again. Even after all the years that must have passed, guilt is still prominent in his eyes. “Shipping manifests. Specific ones I found after developing an algorithm to determine which shipments housed uranium. My contact was a member of the Taliban.”

“Oh,” is James’s eloquent reaction. 

“Yes.”

He is back on his figurative feet a second later. “They didn’t accuse you.”

Q shakes his head, a dark curl falling into his forehead. “Asked me why I did it. I confessed it all, figuring I had nothing to lose. Instead they offered to clear my record, pay my tuition and took the fees for Jessica’s school out of the million they’d confiscated. In return I pledged myself to the government for ten years following my graduation from Cambridge. Which I managed in two years, for the record.”

James snorts. “Of course you did.”

“As to how I saved Jess’s life… I told you this was a long story –”

“It’s enlightening.”

“Ha, I don’t doubt that…” Q flicks the curl out of his eye. James wonders if it feels as soft to the touch as it looks. “Anyway. My sister loves dancing. It’s the rivalry among the dancers that got to her. I was away at Cambridge, too immersed in my studies to pay close enough attention, so part of it is my fault, but alas, I had to keep my grades up to satisfy the MOD…” 

“Drugs?” James says. 

“Cocaine. Her boyfriend at the time was dealing. Easy access, and people who rehearse twelve hours a day need release, I’m sure you can empathise. She made it through her pre-senior degree before crashing. I’d been worrying about her by then, used some, uh, _shadier_ means to check up on her, which I only had access to because I was doing some side projects for the Ministry. Good thing I did, or she would have overdosed. I got Jess into a rehab clinic, took some time off after she’d cleaned up. That’s what she meant, on the plane. It wasn’t literal, not really.”

It’s a lot to process, even for James. “She seems to think so. Are you still under contract?”

Q barks a laugh, his voice shaking a little and betraying his nerves. “Don’t worry. I’m at MI6 because I want to protect my country; I’d never have passed my psych evaluations otherwise. But that’s a story for another day.”

He will forever deny he doubted their quartermaster’s motivation for even the most fleeting second, yet relief floods James’s chest regardless. He lets the silence stretch a little longer, allowing the atmosphere between them to shift, the seriousness evaporating gradually. 

Eventually, James’s mouth splits into a coy grin. “I’ll hold you to that, Q, you tease.”

For some reason, Q’s breath catches at that. He swallows again as he flattens his palms against his thighs and inhales deeply. 

“Kian.”

“Pardon?”

“Not Q. It’s Kian. Although imagining you calling me that is a tad weird, I have to admit. But, well. You asked for my name, the other night.” 

When James realises what just happened, something warm unfurls in his chest. He holds Q – Kian’s – gaze, and reacts the only way that seems appropriate. 

He leans in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! *cheers* I hope you enjoyed this much-needed dose of comfort as much as I did. 
> 
> Also, please note the new chapter count – my villain turned out to be a hell of a lot smarter than anticipated, so I had to make some adjustments … *grins-mysteriously*


	8. Pride and the fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, explicit rating… *winks* ...and hello, over 1,000 Kudos?! #deaded Thank you all so much <3
> 
> I have cast Joe Manganiello as 009 aka Rhys, in case any of you need a (truly appealing and maybe a tad nsfw) visual: [x](http://p5.storage.canalblog.com/53/87/712462/68433608.jpg), [x](https://pabblogger.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/joe-manganiello-hot-52.jpg), [x](http://static.socialitelife.com/uploads/2014/07/18/joe-manganiello-shirtless-people-07182014-06-675x900.jpg). 
> 
> Translations:  
> Chica = girl, woman  
> narco(traficante) = drug trafficker  
> querida = my dear  
> (somos) los buenos = (we are) the ‘good guys’  
> Diga = hello (on the telephone)  
> afk = away from keyboard  
> And since it confused my beta: a “fence” is a smuggler of stolen goods.

The angle is flawed and there is a cat in his lap, but none of that matters when his lips finally cover Q’s, who presses back almost immediately after but a split second of surprised hesitation. 

When James imagined their first kiss, it was always heated, frantic even, yet the reality is so much better. They have been building up to this gradually, and that is exactly how they proceed. Q concedes control to James with a soft gasp that parts his lips enough for James to dip his tongue inside as he brings up his right hand to caress Q’s jaw. 

For several long minutes James’s world narrows down to the languid slide of their tongues, the flexing fingers on his biceps that he can’t remember being placed there, the faintest scrape of teeth across his bottom lip that draws a moan from him despite his usual self-control. 

It morphs into a hiss one moment later and James pulls back abruptly. Linux is already off his lap, yet not before she has dug her paws into his thigh. 

“Claws?” Q wonders, already chuckling. His eyes are full of mirth and the laughter makes his shoulders shake when James grumbles in agreement, since apparently his suffering while snogging is oh-so amusing to the other man. 

James doesn’t notice he is grinning until Q’s own smile widens, and he can’t help but let himself be infected by Q’s soft laughter. And just for that, James vows to reduce the man to a point beyond coherency. 

As much as he enjoys sex itself, James loves the build-up even more, especially the first time with a new partner. Foreplay provides ample time to learn what the other likes, which patches of skin are most sensitive, how to kiss them to leave them panting and gasping under his ministrations. 

James has always been a quick learner, something that is essential in the field and just damn practical in his private life. It doesn’t take him long to gather that Q is as silent and unobtrusive in bed as he is at work, gasps and low moans the height of his exclamations as James sucks on his bottom lip and buries a hand in those soft curls. 

But James yearns to make him whimper or even whine, make him lose that bloody tight grip on his composure, so he huddles closer on the sofa which makes Turing flee and Q shiver. 

James kisses a path along Q’s jaw as his fingers stroke the side of his neck, relishing the goosebumps erupting on the smooth skin. The thumb of his left hand has been rubbing luxurious circles into Q’s arm through a layer of fabric; now it dips lower, past his ribs and to the hem of his hoodie. James doesn’t lift the material, merely slips his fingers beneath it until they touch the warm planes of Q’s stomach. 

Feeling the other man’s muscles quiver under his touch as he sucks on Q’s pulse point sends a thrill up James’s spine. A particularly hard draw of his mouth elicits a strangled moan, so James does it again and again, until Q leans his head back to provide better access, his breath becoming ragged. With an eye on his hurt leg, James pulls him closer until their bodies collide and he can feel the movements of Q’s chest against his own. He licks into the hollow of Q’s throat and rubs his open palm against the man’s groin where the cotton of his trousers does nothing to hide how much he enjoys the proceedings. 

James pulls off Q’s throat and places his lips against the shell of his ear. “I’d love to find out how you taste on my tongue. May I?”

 _That_ finally earns him a groan, low und guttural, as green eyes blink open. They are lust-dark and touch-drunk and James is immediately addicted. 

“If you,” Q starts, but his voice doesn’t cooperate immediately. “If you want to.”

James waits a few heartbeats to make sure his partner sees the sincerity in his gaze. “I do.” 

Q’s nod is all he needs to steal another kiss, taking his time to arrange Q’s good leg between the back of the sofa and the tangle of their bodies. Q’s back ends up against the pile of cushions in the corner and James slides off the sofa altogether, his knees silent as they touch the carpet underneath the sitting area. 

He feels eyes on him when he caresses Q’s thighs through his trousers, inching closer to his groin with every upstroke, so he looks up. Q is worrying his lower lip between his teeth, as if they weren’t bruised enough from kissing. Even in the dim light James can see the blush darkening his cheeks and neck, whether only from arousal or a blend of it and nerves, he couldn’t say. 

It has been a while since he pleasured a man with his mouth, but confidence in his sexual prowess has never been a thing James was lacking. There is something about this time, however, that sets it apart from previous nights; maybe it’s the desire to make Q forget he ever had lovers before James, or the intense atmosphere of their date. Either way, James is set on blowing Q’s mind, pun definitely intended. 

Q’s erection, once his trousers have been unbuttoned and pulled down along with his briefs, is beautiful like the rest of the man, the tip already glistening with precome where it peeks out of the foreskin. 

James starts out slowly, using just one hand to gently stroke the shaft while he peppers kisses on the inside of Q’s left thigh since the other leg is still wrapped in a cast. He hears Q’s breath stutter when his lips finally find his cock, just a tentative press of his mouth against the side of the glans while the warm breath of his exhale promises more to come. 

James looks up when he wraps his lips around the head and the absolutely wrecked state of Q’s expression is enough to make his own erection pulse in the confines of his trousers. He dismisses it in favour of savouring the beads of fluid touching his tongue, his eyelids closing at the taste. 

He loses himself in the moment after that. Once the saliva in his mouth is enough, James dips lower, careful to slide the foreskin down with him. He increases the pressure after a handful of strokes, teasing another gasp out of the man above him, and varies the angle until he discovers what it takes to make Q _whine_. 

When James slips his tongue between glans and frenulum, there’s a muffled curse, so he continues, twirling his tongue while his hands work the shaft with alternating twists. He knows he has won when Q grabs his hair, not even asking for permission, and moans his name. 

His response is non-verbal, just an increase in pressure and rhythm as he slides his thumb and forefinger up to massage the head and add that extra bit of stimulus. It’s James’s turn to moan when Q’s fingers tighten in his hair and his hips buckle. 

“Shit, I’m close,” Q warns, and James opens his eyes. The sight that greets him ignites another wave of pleasure deep in the pit of his stomach: Q has his head thrown back and the hand not currently in James’s hair is white-knuckled on the armrest while the sliver of skin peeking out from underneath his university jumper is shifting above contracting muscles. 

_Christ,_ James hasn’t even seen him naked yet and he is already approaching the edge himself. 

“James,” Q gasps, and now there is tugging. James stays, his message clear. He snuck a glance at Q’s medical file; they have no reason to worry. He can tell the exact moment the other man catches on to this since Q begins to thrust into the heat of James’s mouth immediately after. 

When Q climaxes, it’s with a silent moan and fingers tightening in James’s hair, lips parted and eyes squeezed shut as James catches every last drop of his release. 

“I think I need a moment,” he whispers, much to James’s amusement. 

“Did I discover the secret to shutting you up?” he rumbles, his voice rougher than usual. 

Q’s reply is but an intelligible sound. Maybe he needs to reboot his brain. Needless to say, the fact that James did this, that James made him feel this good, is immensely satisfying. 

By the time he seems to regain a semblance of coherency, James has freed his own throbbing erection and is wanking off to the sight of a blissed out quartermaster, who freezes when he looks down. James can imagine the figure he cuts in the low light – swollen lips and arousal-dark eyes, stroking himself as he kneels at the foot of the sofa. 

Q seems torn between watching further and lending a hand, so James makes the decision for him, unbuttoning his shirt before sliding into the seat next to Q with a charming smirk. 

Q chuckles at that, but reaches out to bat James’s hand away regardless. He keeps his eyes on James’s face, noting even the most miniscule shift of his expression and adjusting his pace accordingly. Having the entirety of Q’s intellect dedicated to bringing him off must be one of the most erotic experiences of James’s life. All too soon, streaks of come paint his chest but he keeps his eyes open, drowning in the green sea that are Q’s own. 

James pulls him into another kiss once his limbs are willing to move again, but it’s slow; lazy even. They kiss until James’s neck starts to hurt from the angle and the mess on his body has dried enough to be considered uncomfortable. 

“Can I borrow a cloth?” he murmurs against Q’s lips. 

“Huh?”

James snorts. “Coherency is nothing I can expect from post-coital you, is it?”

“Now you’re just showing off, James.”

Q lets him go, though upon his return a few minutes later, his eyes are drooping. If asked, James would describe the tableau as nothing short of ‘adorable’, despite the haphazardly pulled up trousers. 

“Kian,” James whispers, trying it out. Q’s eyes flutter open and his lips curl into a lopsided smile. They just look at each other, basking in the contented atmosphere. 

It’s hard to imagine that James ever doubted this was a possibility. 

“I have to go into work tomorrow, too. I need a new watch,” he says eventually, dipping his voice lower for the next part. “Do you want me to give you a ride?”

“Maturity passed by you,” Q quips, shoving him playfully – or attempting to; his arm falls back down halfway through the movement. 

“I think that’s my cue to leave.” 

“Hm.”

“How about breakfast at my place before?”

“Can you cook?”

James nods. “Very well, in fact.”

“Then I see no reason why you shouldn’t dazzle me with your culinary skills.”

“How generous.”

“I am in a rather good mood right now.”

“Whatever might be the reason for that.”

“I couldn’t possibly say.” 

Q is the first to dissolve into laughter, with James swiftly following. He steals one last kiss before collecting his phone. And if his grin is especially wide as he calls for the lift half a minute later, then that will be his secret. 

*

Q sleeps through the night for the first time since he returned from Georgia. Even the sight of the brand mark on his shoulder when he changes cannot affect his good mood, but he should have known that there is no universe in which James and he get to enjoy two consecutive dates without some spot of bother. 

He has just knotted his tie when James is at his door, already wearing his coat and carrying two bananas. 

“I’m afraid we’ll have to take a rain cheque,” he says with an apologetic smile. “Tanner called; there’s been progress.”

“Lovely. Though isn’t it a tad early for American sports metaphors?” 

“Unlikely. You understood it.” 

Q finds himself returning James’s smile and when the man leans in, Q doesn’t hesitate to close the distance. He’s just glad he already brushed his teeth.

The ride to MI6 is only marginally awkward. Q merely blushes once, which he counts as a personal win, and he is almost smooth when he exits James’s car with the cast still on. Unfortunately, it’s improbable that Dr Yassin will take it off today and spare him the future flailing that is bound to occur. 

Bill Tanner awaits them on the other side of security, seeming unsurprised at their joint arrival. Q has to force his hand not to self-consciously tug at the scarf hiding the truly marvellous love bite on his neck. 

“Good, Q, you’re early,” is all the chief of staff says. “I have orders for you as well in light of our most recent development. Walk with me to Q-Branch.”

Q feels his eyebrows rise and he does as commanded, falling into step with Tanner, James doing the same on the man’s opposite side. They have to slow their pace, however, to factor in Q’s injury. 

“009 picked up chatter on his end about a fence offering intel on the new head of SPECTRE.”

“There’s been a predecessor?” Bond enquires. 

“From what we’ve heard, yes. We hoped the fights for dominance would doom the organisation, but as it seems we were wrong. Our mark intimated they are going to be in Cancún this week, prepared to part with vital information on the new boss.”

“Then let Rhys handle it,” Bond grunts as they turn a corner. 

“He’s miming a drug trafficker, 007,” Q answers before Tanner can, “whose cover distanced himself explicitly from anything to do with SPECTRE. He can’t suddenly show interest without blowing his mission.”

Bond huffs as Tanner nods. “Which is where you come in, 007. Everyone in the know thinks we’ve taken a hit because the files were destroyed last week, so your presence will raise no suspicion with the fence. The night shift spent the past few hours conjuring up an alias and prepping your kit. You’ll be on the next flight to Mexico.”

“I hope they packed swimming trunks.” 

“You’ll be disappointed,” Q remarks as dryly as possible. “My employees have a standing order to issue swim shorts only for anyone over 35.” 

“Bite me, quartermaster.”

Q almost swallows his tongue. Fortunately, Tanner has long since stopped paying attention to their antics, be it over the comms or face to face. 

“You’re also going to receive a little something to offer to your mark. If that doesn’t earn us the intel,” Banner continues with an imploring look, “improvise.”

“Right, because 007 hasn’t wreaked havoc on enough of Mexico. Please tell me this time there is no helicopter involved?” Q pleads, not even in jest. 

Tanner sighs the sigh of those who have to deal closely with M whenever Bond gets creative. Eve has mastered it, too. James, meanwhile, is ignoring them in favour of charming R – who has so far proven immune to his charm, bless her – which gives Tanner a chance to expand on the job he hinted at for Q. 

“We need to bear down on the rest of the SPECTRE files. M is aware that he is going against medical orders, but we all know you’ll be too happy as to complain.”

Q nods emphatically. “I don’t even need to go in; we can keep up the façade and pretend I’m still spending my time petting my cats and finding the cheats in Dark Souls 3.” 

Being the inscrutable chief of staff that he is, the fact that Tanner has no idea what Q just said doesn’t faze him. “That’s what we thought. However, it might be sensible to get an assistant of sorts. Someone to take over a few of the easier tasks in their spare time, completely off the record, naturally. I’m sure one of your minions is both qualified and eager to help.”

Q needs a moment to process Bill Tanner using the word ‘minions’ to describe the technological elite of this agency. Surely, Eve is to blame for this. If in doubt, it’s always her.

“I might have someone. I’ll get on that right away before I’m due in medical.”

Once Tanner is gone, Q takes a moment to simply look around the department’s main hall, bustling with overeager employees who made it into work before eight o’clock. It feels like _home_ , from the smell to the hum of conversation to the sounds of typing and markers writing on white boards. He spends half an hour skipping from desk to desk, basking in the warm smiles he receives. No matter how much Jess teases him about lacking the personality to lead, he figures he is doing a fine job as boss to these brats. 

“Farid,” Q says as he reaches the only person in the room without a degree. “A word?” 

He designed his route through the room to that effect, so for anyone watching or checking the security footage later it is going to seem as though Q had asked the man to accompany him to medical for some unspecified reason.

“Is something wrong?” 

“Quite the contrary; I’ll explain in a bit.”

They take the stairs. Farid is about to protest though snaps his mouth shut when he realises which staircase they have entered. There are exactly three blind spots in the entire CNS tower that no one officially knows about – one near M’s office, one near the cafeteria, and one in this staircase. Of course anyone with the skills and access to the network could delete footage they don’t want to be seen or even time a blackout, but those things draw attention. 

“I’m not in trouble?” Farid asks as soon as they come to a stop on the platform between the fifth and sixth floor. 

Q shakes his head. “No. What are you doing in your spare time?”

The younger man blinks owlishly. Only then does it dawn on Q how his question could have been interpreted. 

“Uh, I mean, I have a side project for you.”

Some of the tension bleeds from Farid’s shoulders. Q guesses he should be grateful the hero worship is strictly platonic, then. 

“A _secret_ side project?”

“No, I just thought it fun to hobble up several flights of stairs while my leg is still on the mend.”

“Right! Sorry, guv’ – uh, sir,” Farid corrects, his formal speech slipping. He seems embarrassed even though there is no one around other than Q, who Farid knows doesn’t care. 

Q is amused despite himself. He blames the mind-blowing oral sex he received last night. And yes, he went there. The pun was well-earned. 

“Your decryption skills have improved tremendously since I hired you,” Q says, “and I only have two hands. I’ll grant you remote access to a personal server where you will find data to decode. If you vow to take all necessary precautions, I’ll allow you to work on it during slow days here, but this is something to be kept strictly off the books, and I _mean_ strictly, so I’d appreciate you dedicating part of your free time to this.”

For a moment he thinks he broke the bloke with the weight of responsibility, but thankfully Farid’s eyes uncross three seconds later. 

“I’d be honoured, sir.”

“Good. You’ll receive a message later today.”

“It’s the SPECTRE files, innit?”

Q schools his features to remain blank. “What makes you say that?”

“Oi, come on, bruv! Uh… Sorry. Again. But we were all thinking – you wouldn’t just have _those_ copies. Your contingency plans got contingency plans, so why not add another layer for the most sensitive information this agency’s handled in the past decade?”

Q massages his temple, heaving a sigh. “There’s a bet involved, isn’t there.”

Farid averts his eyes. 

“You can’t say anything.”

“I know. I promise, sir.”

“I trust you.” 

At that, the kid’s eyes light up and he appears to be an estimated two seconds away from jumping up and down like a squirrel on crack, making Q rethink this entire mentoring shtick. 

He found Farid in the depths of cyberspace almost two years ago where a black hat known as Linyphia made a name for themselves. Q recognised the hacker’s talent immediately and initiated contact, sending them puzzles to crack. When he discovered their identity one weekend during a particularly tedious all-night stint of agent sitting, he was grateful he hadn’t eaten in a while. By then Q carried enough weight with M to push for an extraction. Five months shy of his eighteenth birthday, Farid became a warden of the state while his father was arraigned and his mother placed in a clinic. Free from the terror of his home, the kid passed his A levels and has been at MI6 ever since. 

The bang of a door one floor above them makes them tense, and not even the fact that it’s only Nicolas serves to soothe Q’s worries – the usually so unflappable employee seems close to panicking. 

“Q, there’s – I don’t know how this could have happened!”

“Slow down,” he tries to mollify him, climbing the last two steps to put him on even ground. “What’s going on?”

Nicolas takes a deep breath but he stumbles over his words nevertheless. “One of the untraceable bugs is missing. The case was full on Friday during my last inventory, but today one’s missing.”

Farid blanches and Q is sure his expression mirrors his. “Those are the biomolecular patch-things Doctor Frost refuses to share with MI6, right?”

Q gives a curt nod. “MI5’s been backing her decision. They fall into a legal grey area; none of our bosses dare use them before a precedent’s been established. Have you checked the surveillance footage?”

“I did, sir,” Nicolas says, “and no sign of the perpetrator. No sign of anyone doctoring the footage.” 

Instead of replying, Q simply grabs the tablet Nicolas is carrying and checks for himself. Even he cannot find a trace of anyone altering any recordings. Handing the device back, Q orders, “Take this straight to M. Tell Eve I sent you if she says he’s busy. I’ll be there once medical’s poked me with a few needles. Farid, update R, and no one else.”

Both men obey immediately. His visit to medical plays out as drearily as Q anticipated, even though Dr Yassin is pleased with his progress. His gaze only pauses on the love bite for a second. If Q ever solves the problem of time travel, he is going to thank Hippocrates and his students for doctor-patient confidentiality. 

He is five metres away from M’s antechamber when a smiling Daryl steps into his path. 

“Looking good, Q.”

“Ah, thank you. Also for the pudding; you shouldn’t have,” he adds because he was not raised in a barn, no matter what Eve claims whenever he forgoes mindless courtesy due to stress. 

“Two weeks medical leave – you must be going bonkers, right?”

“Uh…”

Daryl aims a gaze at him from underneath his lashes. “Want some company?” 

“I’m seeing someone,” Q blurts with the grace of a blundering baboon. 

The admission pulls Daryl up short and he arches an eyebrow. “Really?” 

“Yes.”

“That’s why you blew me off that Friday, didn’t you?”

Q shrugs, clearing his throat. “No hard feelings?” 

Daryl sucks on his bottom lip, pensive. “Who is it?”

“Too early to say. Now shoo, I need to see M.”

The other man pulls up his hands in surrender. “Sure, mate. I guess we’ll know soon enough. We’re in the world of espionage, after all.”

He can’t help the derisive snort that escapes him. “Unlikely.”

That earns him a smirk. “Nice looking high horse you’re on. You’ve always been an arrogant berk. I’ll start a wager, how about that? We’re gonna find out, and when I get my share of the winnings, I’ll even buy you some cover-up. You’re not fooling anyone with that scarf.”

Q thinks he should be less amused by how quickly his relationship has become another point of interest in the agency’s betting subculture, but the fact that this might actually be a _relationship_ , with _James Bond_ of all people, is making him too giddy to worry. 

“Then I shall take pleasure in being at the centre of the longest-standing tally MI6 has ever seen. Maybe you can include some of MI5 once the merger is complete, if you don’t lose interest until then.”

“Pride comes before a fall, Q,” Daryl says gravely, though he finally leaves. 

Q turns towards the door hiding Eve at her desk, bracing himself. 

*

009 is just as vexing in the warmth of the Caribbean than he is in the London chill. The way his linen shirt emphasises his bulky frame, tanned after almost a month spent in the Mexican sun, only serves to annoy James more. 

“Your fence is late,” he grumbles, taking a sip from his martini. At last the drink is perfect. Then again, no one in Cancún would dare serve a suboptimal cocktail in the presence of the region’s newest kingpin, whom Rhys is posing as. It’s not that James minds spending a few days swimming in the actual ocean – well, fine. He minds, since he is about as adept at twiddling his thumbs and doing nothing as Q is. 

To his left, Rhys raises an eyebrow, setting his empty glass down on the bar and signalling the barkeeper for a refill that comes with staggering swiftness. “You’re telling me you expected anything less from a lady of her calibre, amigo?”

“No, but I yearn for better company.”

“You wound me,” Rhys mocks, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His gaze is drawn towards a point over James’s shoulder then, and James turns around on the barstool to see what caught his colleague’s attention. 

She is hard to miss. Alejandra Lara Gaviria, internationally renowned trader of stolen goods and information, has donned a striking summer dress that plays about her luscious curves, hiding more than it reveals. Her heels click as she makes her way over to the bar, sliding into the empty space between them gracefully. James notes how the loose sleeves of her dress conceal defined arms. He also counted five weapons on her. 

“Señorita Lara,” Rhys greets, oozing charm and power. He is, after all, ‘el Huno’, the Hun, in charge of the local drug trade. 

“Señor Cabeza,” She indulges the hand kiss with a smile that turns calculating when she turns towards James. “Señor Bond. I was surprised to see a British spy enjoy such hospitality here.”

“Well, we have set our eyes on bigger fish,” James jibes with a smile, ignoring Rhys’s scowl. 

Of course the man can’t simply accept that. “He is only jealous because I stole his chica once. Hasn’t forgiven me since.”

“And I arrested your main supplier.”

“I never thanked you for that,” Rhys sneers. “It made me expand my own business. I wouldn’t be where I am without Mr Bond’s meddling.”

“Does MI6 know they helped a narco?” Lara wonders pointedly. 

“You shouldn’t be surprised, señorita,” James purrs, “considering you agreed to meet with me.”

They keep up the small talk for a while longer until their drinks are empty, with both James and Rhys competing in their flirting. Lara is very receptive, yet most of her attention belongs to James since he is the one promising an impressive payment for the information she is offering. It’s early when they take their leave for James’s room. 

“In case my amigo here proves unsatisfactory,” Rhys jeers, “I’ll be here for a little longer, querida.”

“I will remember that,” Lara promises, but her hand is already on James’s arm as they exit the bar. 

They end up on two sides of an L-shaped sofa in the living room of James’s room in the large property that has come into Rhys’s possession. The lamp on the side table casts a soft light on Lara’s soft features as she leans forward, the movement drawing James’s attention to her cleavage. 

“I take it your colleagues are listening to every word we speak.”

“Always.”

Her eyes flicker to both sides of his head in unspoken question. James turns his eyes towards his right ear, the one nearer to her. She slides closer until their thighs are touching and her lips skim over the shell of his ear. 

“Then I hope you are recording diligently. Now, señor Bond… what are you willing to give me?”

James reaches inside his breast pocket. She accepts the passport with careful fingers. 

“You tell us all you know about the new head of SPECTRE and this will be yours. We’ll take you off the no fly list as well.”

“How do I know I won’t be arrested the moment I set foot in England?”

“You don’t. You only have our word. Somos los buenos, after all.”

The corners of her lips twitch. “Debatable.” 

The moment stretches between them as she considers the offer. Eventually, she places the passport next to her with a firm nod. James tilts his head with an expectant look. She leans in again, placing a hand on his knee as James inhales a new wave of her perfume. 

“Once upon a time in the nineties,” she begins, “Blofeld fell in love with a woman high up in the hierarchy. They had a son. He was raised outside of the organisation, but Blofeld remained a strong presence in his life. In wake of what happened, he assumed his father’s position. He was behind the Archangel when he took your puny quartermaster.”

James ignores the pang of… _something_ at such an off-hand reminder of the kidnapping. “Do you have a name?”

She shakes her head. The movement makes a few strands of her hair cascade down the side of her face, hiding part of her décolleté. “All I know is that he goes by ‘Kingpin’. El Cerebro.”

James keeps his expression blank as he continues in a murmur, feeling her hand inching up his leg, “Do you know where he is now?” 

“Rumours. I heard he has wealthy friends in Dubai.” 

She shifts until their eyes meet. He sees that this is everything she is prepared to tell, so he doesn’t enquire further. Her gaze dips lower, down his torso to his groin, before she looks at him again from beneath heavy lashes with a smile playing about her lips. 

There truly is no need for plying her with sex; he has his intel. No reason to send her off either, yet something about her rubs him the wrong way, filling him with unease. 

“Good,” he says, keeping his expression neutral. “It’s early… I’m sure el Huno is feeling lonely.”

Her hand pauses on his thigh, but other than that only the brief twitch of her eyes indicates her confusion. He stands his ground, maintaining eye contact, and two heartbeats later she pulls back with a coy smirk.

“I’m sure he won’t mind to keep me up all night,” she purrs as she leaves. It’s not unkind or hurt or disappointed, but still… James can’t quite put his finger on it. 

“007?” 

Oh yes, R is still there. 

“Something’s dodgy. Dig into her; see if you can find anything.” 

“If you say so, 007.”

“I take it I’m on the next flight to Dubai?”

“Peter is booking one as we – ah, thank you. Via Houston. Be ready for a car to pick you up at seven-thirty.”

“And you will –”

“Yes, Bond, I will look into your hunch.”

“Thank you.”

“Get some sleep, 007.”

*

 _Farid, you need to sleep at some point,_ Q types into the tab on the bottom right of his screen. 

_I have the day off,_ comes the instant reply and Q wants to bang his head against the nearest surface, yet seeing as it is the counter of his workstation at home where his cup of tea is perched precariously close to his computer he deems it too risky. 

_Set the red bull down and get some sleep._

_Stop hacking my webcam, guv._

_Stop disobeying a direct order._

_I’m onto something! … uh, sir._

Q pulls off his glasses and rubs his hands over his face. Given how much of himself he sees in the lad, he should just abandon ship now and let the kid continue. 

_Fine. But you’re on duty tomorrow for 007’s first full day in Dubai. You WILL sleep beforehand or I shall make you regret you ever connected your external hard disk to your laptop._

Farid presumably spends the pause mentally checking the contents of all his hard disks. He must have remembered the one with his childhood pictures, for the _Yes, sir_ even sounds embarrassed through the screen of Q’s laptop. 

There is a knock and Q remembers his manners long enough to type a quick _afk_ to Farid before walking towards the front door. Because he can – almost two weeks after the Americans glued his bones back together, his leg is finally stable enough to allow for a loose approximation of his natural gait. 

Eve swans in with grocery bags and a mysterious glint in her eyes. The reason for that becomes evident once the food is stacked away and Eve is petting Turing, kneeling on the floor and grinning up at Q. 

“He didn’t sleep with the fence.” 

Q makes a non-committal noise, pretending to have no idea whom she is referring to. 

“James,” Eve presses. “He got the information but sent her off.”

Now that is news to Q. Seeing as he spent the past few days buried in SPECTRE files he has yet to catch up with any developments on James’s end. 

“Did he say why?”

“Well, he says it’s because something was off.”

“Then it’s highly probable that something was. Bond has sharp instincts.”

“Aren’t you glad, though?”

Q rubs the bridge of his nose to quell the exasperation he feels despite knowing this topic would arise at some point in the near future. 

“James’s loyalty lies first and foremost with England, as does mine. Sleeping with marks or contacts is the nature of his job, so my sentiment on the matter is one of indifference. Intrigue about the woman, admittedly, yet I take it R is already following up?”

Eve’s eyes narrow as she considers him, still rubbing Turing’s belly as he butts his head against the tips of her heels. 

“She is,” she says slowly. “You genuinely mean that. Don’t you want something more?”

Q tries to play daft. “More?”

“Intimacy. Commitment.”

Apparently, Turing has had his fill and he rolls to his paws, allowing Eve to do the same with almost as much grace. 

“Those things do exist outside the realm of sexual exclusivity, Eve. I know you want a white dress and kids and a dog,” he says, her “Yes” proud and full of fond certainty, “but that’s not the one true trajectory of being in love.”

“So you wouldn’t be jealous of the people he sleeps with?” 

“No. This is James Bond, Eve. Sex is just another weapon in his arsenal and both he and I love our jobs too much to see any sense in curtailing his efficiency on the base of hegemonic ideas about romance.”

Her lips thin, yet she doesn’t argue further. They’ve had similar discussions in the past, mostly fuelled by drinks and the insouciant atmosphere of a pub, so their varying views on the topic need not be masticated again. For Eve, sex and love are like tea and milk – she won’t have one without the other. And that’s perfectly fine as long as she doesn’t expect Q to follow the same philosophy. 

She heaves a sigh, though her features have evened out. “Well, as long as you’re happy.”

Q lets his smile be answer enough.

*

R calls with an update when James touches down in Houston Airport. Or rather, she calls with a lack of an update. 

“We found _nothing_ out of the ordinary, 007. Whatever your instincts were telling you, it was baseless.”

 _Bugger._ “How deep did you look?”

He hears the woman inhale angrily. “I know I’m not your favourite handler, Bond, but me and our analysts are great at what we do.”

He misses Q’s banter. The young man would have had a snide retort on his tongue at the mere thought of James questioning his abilities. 

He checks the nearest clock, mounted on the wall above the crowds filling the airport hall. Still an hour to go until boarding starts, and then he will be trapped on a plane, unable to react if this goes tits up, which every fibre of his body is telling him it will. 

“Fine,” he says, reaching a decision. “I’m sure I’ll have a _spiffing_ flight.”

A beat. He can practically hear her eye-roll as she replies with the appropriate code word. “Yes, I’m sure it will be just _dandy_.” 

Another pause. 

“We’ve gone dark. What is it, Bond?”

Every handler has certain codes that, should an operative voice them, initiate certain protocols. For R, the word ‘spiffing’ means she is to stop all recording measures and leave no official record of the conversation. Her answering ‘dandy’ signalled that she had complied. 

“I need you to put me through to 009, then get me on the next non-stop flight to London.”

“Oh, so we’re not going to follow up on the only lead we have that will ensure MI6’s safety? Why, because of an _inkling_?”

“Put me through to Rhys.”

She grumbles but follows his order. It is almost eleven o’clock, so 009 should be awake. 

“Dígame,” comes the sleepy greeting. Or not. 

“It’s 007; the line’s secure.”

A groan, giving way to a yawn. “Toss off, James. What, you called to gloat?”

“Gloat?”

“About Lara.”

“She’s not with you?”

“No, mate. Why – hang on. You didn’t sleep with her?”

“Something was off. She still in her room?”

“How the bloody hell should I know?”

James grits his teeth. “Check. _Please_.”

It’s the plea that finally grabs Rhys’s attention. “Shit, okay. Give me a minute, her room’s on the other end of the hacienda.” 

Vindication about Rhys doing as he is told would taste sweeter if James had more details. The fact that the fence didn’t seek out 009 even though she said she would rings an array of alarm bells, especially considering how heavily she was returning 009’s heated looks the night before. If pressed, even James might concede that Rhys is a handsome bloke and for someone so interested in a tumble between the sheets as Lara not to follow through… It’s disconcerting. 

“She left. You scare her off or something?”

“I need you to scour the room.”

Rhys grouses all the way through the next three minutes, but at least he does as told. When he emerges empty-handed in the end, James’s mind is galloping through possibilities, things they could have missed… 

“Is her rubbish still there?”

“Oi, I’m not –”

“ _Rhys._ ”

“You owe me for this, mate.”

James chuckles. As competitive as they are, they never keep track of things like this. The mission comes first. Always. 

“I’ll be damned. You didn’t snog her, did you?”

“No.”

“Good thing you didn’t. Found a facial tissue, stains match the colour of her lipstick from last night.”

“And what –”

“If you could let me finish?” Rhys snaps, though there is hardly any heat in it. “The lipstick’s started to corrode the tissue – I’ve seen this before. Taking a picture now. R?” he chances a guess. 

“Already accessing your phone’s library,” the handler replies without missing a beat. 

Personal feelings aside, James muses, his co-workers are brilliant in the field. “Where did you see what, Rhys?”

“On a tissue similar to this one, when 003 removed her make-up after that thing with the ambassador. When she had to inject that antitoxin.”

“Paralytic lipstick? You must be joking.” 

“Wish I were, amigo.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, James feels compelled to ask, “Why did you see 003 taking off her make-up?”

“You’re a big lad. Use your imagination.”

“Boys,” R cuts in. “If she really did try to paralyse you, 007, we have a problem.” James thinks they have more than a mere problem, yet it has already been established that the members of Q-Branch define things differently from regular humans. “The next flight for London leaves in an hour and thirty minutes. I pushed the boarding pass onto your phone. Use your back-up passport. I’ll make it look as if you’re actually on the plane to Dubai to anyone outside this conversation, safe for M.”

“And keep –”

“ – looking, yes, I’ve been doing this job for a while, agent.”

Rhys chuckles, but also promises to keep an ear out for anything that might be related to this botched assassination attempt. Or kidnapping gone awry? James is almost glad it is a nine-hour flight to London since it will give him time to sort through all this and maybe find an explanation. 

*

In the end, Q takes severe measures and remotely locks Farid out of his own computer. The lad is perfectly capable of gaining access again, yet that isn’t the point; his action rather a signpost than genuine obstacle. 

It works and Q sighs in relief as he confirms the kid is genuinely resting. Meanwhile Q continues, shifting through files and programming algorithms to search the uncovered data for everything and anything that might be of use in the immediate future. The analysts at the CNS tower can take over all other long-term data mining. 

The screen of his phone lights up with Tanner’s ID. Q has to do a double take at the time, since when he began it was still morning. Now it is 7:09 PM. 

Well, at least his obsessive clock checking behaviour has disappeared. Dr Pengelly will be pleased. 

“I’m sorry to saddle you with the analysis as well,” Tanner says after Q provided the requested progress report. “It’s a little mundane.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s perfectly all right – I’m borrowing server space from GlaxoSmithKline so I’m able to run several algorithms simultaneously while –”

“English, Q.”

“I don’t see what might trip you up with ‘algorithms’ and ‘server space’, sir.”

“I just wanted a progress report.”

“Well, expect a flood of helpful intel over the course of the next few days, to be forwarded at your and M’s discretion.”

“Next time lead with that, please.”

Q chuckles despite himself. It feels too good to finally be back in the action of things to roll his eyes at the technological illiteracy of his bosses. Alas, compared to his prowess, anyway. Surely Tanner and M count as rather apt at these things from the perspective of normal people. 

Just as he hangs up, Turing speeds past his legs, Linux in pursuit. They dart across the room, underneath the sofa, climb up the smallest cat tree and jump back down again, racing into the hallway before Turing realises how unwise his path was. Q watches as he slitters to a halt, turning about and hissing at Linux, who raises a paw to hit her fellow pet on the head. 

Their ‘barmy five minutes’, as Q has long since dubbed these short outbursts of his flatmates’ ludic drive, last only four this time around, but only because Turing has the absolutely dozy idea that climbing the coat stand would provide a suitable escape route. 

“Oi!” Q calls, rushing over yet Turing is already jumping off his coat. He checks for damage with a frown, still mourning a jacket that was particularly dear to him but was lost to the bloody antics of his daft pets months ago. Fortunately for Turing, who is keeping out of sight even as Q tells him off as sternly as possible, the coat seems to be fine, and Q sighs in relief. 

That’s when he sees it. 

It isn’t small – it’s _tiny_ , almost invisible given its transparent colour, peeking out from underneath the collar, though Q recognises it on sight, now that he actually discovered it. 

Whoever stole Dr Frost’s bug placed it on Q’s person and has been listening to every conversation he has conducted over the last several days. 

Q can feel all blood drain from his face as the implications dawn on him. 

*

James has found the only possible explanation for Lara’s actions a mere two hours into his flight. It takes another six until they have reached an altitude that allows him to make a call despite the advanced status of his phone. 

_Note to self: tell Q to work on that_ , James decides as the dial tone rings out. It is 7.30 PM in London, so hopefully Eve is already at home. 

“James?” she says as she answers the call, confusion colouring her voice. “You’re on a plane to Dubai.”

“Change of plans. Where are you?”

“Having dinner at Sam’s. Hang on…” The sound of footsteps; presumably Eve looking for privacy. “All right. What’s going on?”

“The fence was wearing paralytic lipstick,” James begins, not pausing to wait for a reaction. “She was lying about Dubai, trying to send me on a wild goose chase in case her seduction failed –”

“Which it did. But what’s her angle?”

“SPECTRE. I’m sure she’s been hired to do this.”

“So there is no new leader?”

“Oh yes, there is. He’s just not in Dubai. He’s in London.”

“Can you prove it?”

James clenches his jaw, his grip on the phone tightening, and lets the silence speak for itself. Thankfully, Eve’s ensuing sigh is both weary and amused, so he knows she won’t hesitate to comply. 

“I’m landing at eight-thirty. No time to get my gun from customs, so bring a weapon with you; we’ll call R on the way.”

“Wha– on the way _where_ , James?”

“Q’s flat,” he barks. “He’s the target.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh myy, what a ride! Hope you enjoyed the smut as well as the build-up for the finale as much as I did!
> 
> Fun fact – if James leaves Houston Friday morning for London, he will arrive Thursday night according to the [travel time calculator](http://www.timeanddate.com/time/travel.html%20). I understand temporal mechanics and time travel perfectly, but it’s embarrassing how long it took me to figure out who does what when for these two chapters…


	9. No more use in running

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RL is to blame for the longer-than-usual wait, but rest assured that chapter 10 will follow before December ends.   
> For those of you who know Kingsman, Farid is basically a tech-savvy poc version of Eggsy ;) 
> 
> Now hold onto something, and enjoy the ride!
> 
> Translations:  
> maldición = damn it  
> mi amor = my love  
> Eh? = Huh?  
> novia = girlfriend

A snitch. That is the only explanation. 

There _has_ to be a mole at MI6. Someone whose loyalty lies with SPECTRE and who somehow managed to not only steal the bug but also plant it on Q. Given its inherent qualities, no scanner will pick up on its presence – another reason why the agencies are still hesitant to use it in the field. 

Q is back at his workstation at lighting speed, passing Turing in the kitchen who ducks his head. Q pays him no heed as he slips into MI6’s network undetected, his eye on the surveillance feeds of Monday. 

It is the only day he was at HQ; so it has to be when the bug found its way onto his coat. He blazes through every second of footage, but - 

Nothing. No one touched his shoulder. 

He doubts he would have missed it, too; he has firmly established his bubble of personal space none of his colleagues dare enter. Not even Eve, he muses, apart from occasional hugs or a hand on his arm. He did remove his coat in medical, yet the feed proves none of the staff there came remotely near it. 

What the bloody hell is going on? 

The buzz of his intercom distracts him from his deliberations. A few commands and he can answer the call from reception on the screen in front of him, with no need to head to the door. 

“Yes?” 

“Mr Bradshaw,” Michael's voice greets him. “Good evening. Sorry to bother you but there is a man here to see you, by the name of Nicolas Hound. I believe he accompanied you once before but protocol dictates I enquire whether it is okay to let him up.” 

_Nicolas?_ Q tilts his head. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“Mr Hound said he needed to talk to you quite urgently. He specified he requires a tête-à-tête. Also, uh, he looks rather distressed, sir. I offered him a handkerchief.”

Q’s mind kicks into overdrive. ‘Tête-à-tête’ is one of his personal code words, applying to any emergency situation where someone – usually a field agent – requires his immediate and unquestioned cooperation. There are other signals, ones that would hint at coercion being in play, which Nicolas is perfectly aware of. However, trusting the young man to recall the subtle nuances in meaning in an apparently high-pressure situation is not an option for Q. Good thing he keeps a Walther at the flat, just in case. 

“Thank you, Michael, that’s quite all right. Please send him up.”

“Of course, sir.”

Q spares five seconds to commandeer the feed from the lobby, cringing slightly when he is confronted with a clearly distraught archivist. The only time Q found the man in a similar state lies eighteen months in the past and followed his then-girlfriend’s “No, thank you” in response to a marriage proposal. 

A tentative ‘meow’ pulls Q from his thoughts. Turing is peering around the kitchen island, presumably wondering if his owner is still mad. Well, in Turing’s eyes he is certainly more of a servant than owner, but Q likes to pretend he has at least some sort of authority over his pets. 

He scratches Turing behind the ears briefly, then uses the two minutes that remain until Nicolas will knock on his door to remove all sensitive files and gadgets that clutter his space from sight. While switching out the documents against the gun stowed away in the safe hidden behind the telly, he knocks against the one and only bookcase he owns. His head snaps up to the upper edge of the case where he placed the flowers from Q-branch after M’s visit. The vase jounces, yet fortunately balances again instead of careening to the floor. 

When he pulls open his door, weapon hidden behind his back yet activated through his palm print, the sight that greets him is even more miserable than anticipated, all red-rimmed brown eyes, flushed cheeks, and pallid complexion. 

“Nicolas, come in,” he offers and is about to follow up with an enquiry for tea, but the bloke is already moving past him, aiming straight for Q’s coat which he frisks until he, too, finds the bug. Nicolas sends him a wide-eyed gaze as he sneaks the bug outside into the hallway. 

Right, since destroying it would alert whoever is listening. 

“I’m sorry, sir, but we need to leave right now –”

“Nicolas, slow down –”

“No, we need to go,” the man cries, panic prominent in his voice. Q notices the minute tremors in his limbs. The usually unflappable colleague is terrified. “I don’t know why he’s making his move tonight but he must have uncovered something; I think it’s something to do with the SPECTRE files – maybe they’re not gone after all and you’ve been on sick leave and –”

“Shut up,” Q barks, grabbing Nicolas’ shoulders after shoving the Walther into the waistband of his trousers to free his dominant hand. It has the intended effect; the bumbling stops. “Who is making a move? Why’re you here?”

“To get you to safety! I have a car –”

“Who? How did you figure it out?” 

“Wenham,” Nicolas gasps. 

Q reels back. “Daryl? I don’t –”

“I triple-checked, sir, I swear, but I overheard a phone call where he confirmed moving against you – he didn’t see me, I’m certain; if I’m good at anything it’s blending into the background – and then I did some snooping and found several suspicious documents. No one would find them odd but I’ve seen similar things in the archive and –"

At that point, Q is only half listening. Daryl being a double agent cuts him deeper than he can say, considering it isn’t the first time someone tried to get to him via seduction. He wants to kick himself. How could he have been so trusting? 

“Sir?”

With a huff and a shake of his head, Q pushes the thoughts away. “You said you had a car.”

“Yes, right in front of the building.”

Q takes the ninety seconds it requires to check his cats’ food station and set the alarms on the door and windows, donning his debugged coat and slipping into a pair of his sturdier boots, mirroring Nicolas’ own choice, then follows the bloke down to the car.

*

_**45 minutes earlier** _

James shoulders past every other passenger the second the ‘fasten seatbelt’ signs go dark, barely caring enough to remember his briefcase holding some of his documents. His luggage is securely on its way to Dubai; the agency will sort it out later. 

He spots Eve next to her BMW and spares a smile for her before sliding into the passenger seat. She is still frowning when the engine starts. 

“Sam’s in a strop.”

“He’ll get over it.”

The ensuing silence takes him by surprise. 

“He won’t?”

Eve presses her lips into a thin line. “I don’t know. He’s not daft, James. He’s been aware that something’s up for a while.”

A friend – which James thinks he is to her – should probably say something to pacify her worries. Unfortunately her relationship troubles don’t rank particularly high among his priorities at the moment and he is already initiating a video call to R from the car’s system. He’ll make it up to her. 

“I’m in Q’s office, no one is going to disturb me,” is R’s way of greeting, dark shadows under her eyes the only testament to her exhaustion. “What’s going on, 007?” 

“Lara was a diversion,” James says, “meant to keep me away from London; make me give chase to Kingpin. He’s in London. He knows about the SPECTRE files –”

“The ones that were destroyed?” R interrupts. 

James smirks. “Not quite.”

She curses under her breath, too low for James to hear, and murmurs something about a wager, yet he ignores it. 

“He knows about the files. And who is the one employee with a high enough security clearance and plenty of free, unsupervised time on his hands?”

“Q,” Eve responds, the lines about her eyes tightening dangerously. A moment later, the car engine roars and accelerates. 

*

“Is anyone else involved?” his saviour asks as he navigates up Nine Elms in the black Toyota. “With that bug, Wenham’s bound to know everything you said. No one’s safe.”

Q swears colourfully. Involving his protégé seems to have been a flawed idea after all. 

“One person. They were sleeping, last I checked.” 

Q is already producing his phone and dialling Farid’s number as he gives Nicolas the kid’s address. 

“Sir?”

“Yes, Farid, sorry to wake you,” he says in a rush, explaining as quickly as possible about the danger they are in. “We’re on our way to you. Grab what you need and meet us in front of your building.”

The lad is audibly flustered and overwhelmed, yet he adapts quickly, ending the call to fetch his things. 

Q ignores the way his heart is beating an insistent rhythm against his ribcage.

*

Despite Eve’s daredevil driving, they are still twenty minutes from Q’s flat and James contemplates if stealing an aircraft in Houston would have saved them any time. 

They were unable to reach Q. Something must have already happened, yet James can’t allow himself to think about that right now. The anger curling in his stomach is much too potent without making this even more personal. 

Suddenly, R’s eyebrows furrow and she blinks rapidly at a point below the webcam. “Someone’s hacking my station.”

“Q?” James suggests, perfectly aware that it constitutes nothing but wishful thinking. 

“I wouldn’t notice if it were him; this hacker’s good, but they’re brute-forcing their way –”

She cuts off abruptly as a second feed pops up on screen, splitting it between R and – 

“Farid?” Eve says. 

“Mini-Q?” James follows a split second later. 

The boy – for he is nothing more than a boy, with even more spots than Q had when he first started at MI6, and the printed T-shirt does nothing to alleviate that effect – quickly takes in the situation, his eyes widening as they fall on James. 

“Thank God, 007! You’re here!” Before anyone has a chance to react, Farid continues, babbling almost too fast to remain comprehensible. “I didn’t have time to check if you’d really boarded that flight to Dubai but never mind, bruv, you need to head to my flat instead, Q’s on his way there –”

“Kid,” James growls, and the glare of a Double-oh seems to be enough to scare the minion into a semblance of coherency. “From the beginning. Make it quick.”

“A couple of minutes ago, Aragog started transmitting –”

“Who?”

“The spider I put into the bouquet! Something must’ve activated it, it’s a glitch I’ve still got to solve but this time it helped because I heard Nicolas sprouting a whole load’a bollocks, so I checked and then Q called me –”

“We couldn’t get through to him,” R interjects. 

“Everything’s being disrupted somehow; only outbound calls work which is why I don’t have a trace on him, but I know where he’s gonna be, guv’, I swear.”

James makes another unhappy sound and Farid flinches on screen. He doesn’t have the time to feel bad about not thinking. Everyone at MI6 knows about Farid’s past, courtesy of the agency’s overactive rumour mill and a few more public anxiety attacks in Farid’s first weeks there. 

“Q thinks Wenham stole the bug and planted it on him, because he’s a snitch for SPECTRE, so he wants to pick me up ‘cause I’d be in trouble too –”

“Why?” Eve cuts in, just as she overtakes another car in a bold move given the oncoming traffic. 

“I’ve been decrypting some SPECTRE files –”

“ _What_ ,” R hisses. 

“Guv’ner asked me to! Only some heavy lifting but –”

“Save your quarrelling for later,” James orders. “It’s not Wenham.” That berk doesn’t have the brains to one-up anyone, let alone Q. “Who’s in the bloody car with him?”

“Nicolas.”

Eve’s head snaps to the feed. “Our archivist?”

“Yeah; I checked today’s feeds – there’s no sign of him finding out anything or being threatened or _anything else_ , and I’m sure he was the bloke who planted the bug on Q when he told ‘im about it being missing, but there’da been no footage of that ‘cause we was in one of them blind spots,” comes rushing out like a cascade that is more and more coloured in annoying Cockney. Or chav, James neither knows nor cares. 

“ETA five minutes,” Eve informs them. “Did they ask you to wait outside?”

Farid nods. 

“Do that,” James says. His tone turns infinitely colder. “We’ll be nearby and on that cretin before he knows what happened.”

*

The agent housing in Lambeth where Farid lives is cheap, albeit a little out of the way in the wake of the merger and subsequent move. 

Q is about to reach out for the window controls in order to become more visible but Farid has already spotted him, turning on his heels and walking towards the car at a brisk pace. He has nothing but a messenger bag, obviously holding his laptop, yet Q expected nothing else. 

What he didn’t expect is the nervous flicker of Farid’s eyes to something behind their vehicle. Q twists around, catching what he believes to be a part of Eve’s car ( _What? Why?_ ) in his peripheral vision before the engine howls. 

He whirls around, already opening his mouth to ask what the heck Nicolas thinks he’s doing, but then there is a pressure on his chest and a tight metallic rope pinning him to his seat, arms tucked against his sides from the restraints. 

“What the hell!”

Nicolas sends the car flying, past Farid and down the road. A pair of headlights comes to life behind them but Q can’t turn enough to see who’s after them, can’t tell if it really is Eve or if that was just a figment of his imagination.

“Bloody Bond,” Nicolas grouses next to him, pushing a few buttons on the console of the car’s headboard. “Should’ve had him killed after all; fuck.”

From one second to the next, Q’s mind short-circuits, only to go back online with a chunk of jigsaw pieces slotting together. 

It’s not Daryl. It never has been. And Nicolas is a sodding stellar actor. 

“ _You._ ”

The man turns his head briefly, a smile tugging at his lips. “Surprise.” 

He resumes driving one-handed as his left snatches the Walther from where it has been digging into Q’s spine. The gun is discarded matter-of-factly, landing somewhere on the back seat or the car floor a heartbeat later. 

Q blinks, his pulse catching up with the proceedings and deciding it needs to break all records for speed and intensity. He’s trapped, tied up and at the mercy of someone he trusted as close to implicitly as the circumstances of his job allow. 

“You really think SPECTRE would associate with dimwits like _Wenham_?” Nicolas spits, his tone dripping with disdain. “He’s thinking with his prick more often than with the little that’s left of his brain.” 

“But – how – I vetted you personally!” Q protests weakly. “You proposed to, whatshername…”

“Clara,” Nicolas snarls, his eyes flashing. 

Q swallows at his blunder. “You’ve been with us for years. When did SPECTRE turn you?”

A sliver of teeth as he smiles. “They didn’t. I’ve been SPECTRE all along. Well, I almost defected. Thought with Clara, I could…” Nicolas coughs. “Well. That definitely didn’t happen. Well, and then Bond has to bollocks everything up and put my father in jail, so I had to step up my game. Had to act before that damn git developed feelings for you; there’s no need for a rerun of that bloody Quantum mess…”

“I did a complete background check,” Q reiterates, since it bears repeating in his opinion and his mind has a spot of trouble processing all of what his driver has just revealed. “You were clean. Positively _sparkling_.” 

Nicolas huffs, apparently deciding to take pity on him. “Franz Oberhauser is my father. You didn’t find any record of that because there _are no records_. Not a single slip of paper or a single byte of data.”

“What, he had your parents raise you for this?” Q scoffs. “And you followed like a mindless lemming?”

It was supposed to nark the other man, yet Nicolas simply chuckles. “I have too high an IQ for mindlessly doing anything, quartermaster. But I admit I had a rebellious phase in my teens. Read Marx, went to a few rallies at uni. Which you know, since you certainly found those pictures during your background check. In the end, though, I saw why SPECTRE is the superior choice.”

“A choice that is about to be finished,” Q sneers. “We have access to all your files, after all. Even if you kill me, all that is left is analysing the remaining material and there is no way in hell you’ll get your dirty hands on it again.”

A screeching kitten might have had a more intimidating effect on Nicolas. The archivist merely raises the eyebrow closer to Q without taking his eyes off the road. The car behind them is catching up, yet it is a slow process. Nicolas is surprisingly skilled – Q wonders if driving is a lesson they teach at the SPECTRE Academy for Ruthless Villainy.

“Oh, please, I really thought you’re smarter than that, lad. I’m not trying to get to the data – I learnt my lesson when the sodding Archangel failed a simple interrogation. No, I’m just tying up loose ends.”

A chill creeps up Q’s spine. “I gather that I am one of them?”

“Obviously. SPECTRE is like HYDRA – you cut off one head, two more will grow. MI6 never stood a chance.”

“Comic book references?” Q gapes. “Really?”

Nicolas shrugs. “I am the Kingpin, after all.”

A sharp turn makes the metallic rope dig painfully into Q’s left arm and he fails to supress a hiss. “So, what are you planning on doing with me?” he says to cover it up. “Going to torture me again?”

A short laugh. “Been there, done that. My plans have evolved, though I thought I would manage to lure your mini-me away with us, too. I guess I just have to settle for shooting you.”

“Then why the hell are we still driving?” Q spits, thrashing a little yet he knew the restraints wouldn’t budge.

At that, Nicolas faces him fully. The broad grin does not bode well. 

“I’m stalling. But that’s over now – backup is here.” 

The sound of a crash interlaced with creaking metal and shattering glass has Q spin around and he sees a black sedan embed itself into a storefront, successfully cutting off anyone who was following him. 

*

James braces himself, riding the momentum as Eve’s reflexes spin the wheel not a moment too late. They tear off part of the sedan’s rear yet continue otherwise unperturbed, now in a parallel street with no visual on Q. 

Headlights flash in the rear view mirror. 

“We have company,” James points out, already opening the glove compartment to retrieve the weapons Eve mentioned were stashed inside. 

“Then uninvite them,” Eve grunts. “I’m a little busy here.”

On the backseat, Farid whimpers. It was probably too much to hope that mini-Q would be able to keep as calm in life-threatening scenarios as his idol, James thinks covertly as he unwinds his window. 

Two shots, two tires, one car out of commission. 

As he ducks back inside, a notification appears on the car’s console, superimposed over R’s pinched expression. 

“It’s M,” Eve says with an air of trepidation, accepting the call nonetheless. 

Already poised to speak, M hesitates as his eyes widen at the sight of James, though the growl that follows is all the more dark. 

“Care to tell me why I just received several calls about a car chase through southeast London involving a vehicle registered to my assistant?”

“Tad busy here, boss,” Eve quips, taking the next turn way too sharp and following it up with an even sharper one which thankfully places them in visual range of Q and Nicolas. 

James leans out of the window for three seconds to take out their newest tail – only to duck back inside when the sedan’s passengers return the fire in kind. 

“007, report!” M barks at him, tone brooking no argument. 

He fills him in between swift manoeuvres, switching projectiles when it becomes evident that the first one was the only car whose tyres weren’t reinforced to withstand exactly what James is doing, and a few minutes later M looks as though he is close to an ulcer. Or a heart attack. 

“Nicolas,” he echoes in disbelief. 

“It makes sense, uh, sir,” Farid supplies. “With no one using the equipment, he’s in charge of inventory, so he could have stolen the bug on Friday and pretended it only went missing on Monday. And wasn’t he in charge of research into the Archangel, before we knew what those wings meant? He could’ve destroyed all references he found as he went.”

“Brilliant,” Mallory sighs, then his features harden. James recognises the expression – it gives his superior the look of an attack dog about to pounce. “R, I’m sending Tanner your way. You have carte blanche regarding resources; Miss Moneypenny and 007 are going to need backup. I’ll babysit the police commissioner and every other idiot getting their knickers in a twist over this.”

The man has to be genuinely annoyed. James rarely heard him swear like that. 

At least the impending property damage from the miniature grenade he is currently throwing won’t worsen his boss’s mood, then. 

*

The mounting pressure on his chest is getting harder and harder to ignore; throat thickening with every turn that reminds Q just how bloody helpless he is like this, strapped to the seat with Nicolas ignoring him in favour of navigating the roads. 

His sense of direction in real life is practically non-existent. All Q knows is that they are somewhere in southeast London, but without the digital likeness of a map he couldn’t pinpoint their location if there were a gun held to his head. Which might happen sooner rather than later, he realises, and a wave of nausea rolls over him. 

Then, moments before they take another turn and are gone from view, Q looks back just when their pursuer passes underneath a street lamp. Its light is sufficient to illuminate the vehicle – Eve’s BMW, there is no doubt about it – as well as a man em>literally leaning out of the passenger side window with a firearm. Q’s heart almost stops when he grasps why the figure is so sodding familiar. 

It’s James. 

Somehow, and contrary to all official data, James Bond is not in Dubai but warding off enemy vehicles as Eve tries to catch up with Q and Nicolas. 

His mind is too fussy to think of an explanation, yet the knowledge that 007 is near makes Q relax more than he shall ever admit. The mounting dread of impending death lessens and breathing becomes easier, if not effortless. 

Q’s vision clears not a second too late: Nicolas is diverting into the road leading off the square, yet there’s oncoming traffic – on their lane. Q catches a glimpse of the other driver (and for one nutty second thinks it’s Sam, Eve’s boyfriend) before the vehicles crash into each other. 

Fortunately, the Audi rams their front left corner without denting it too badly – otherwise, Q would have a lot more problems than the blinding pain of where his body was pushed into the restraints by the sudden loss of momentum. 

His head is swimming, unable to pick up on what happens but the other driver must have exited their car and approached theirs. Nicolas unbuckles swiftly, merely rolling down the right window as he retrieves a gun that has been stowed underneath his seat. He doesn’t even bother opening the driver door, just fires two warning shots at the other person. 

Q flinches despite having anticipated them. 

“Fuck!” Nicolas shouts upon his return. He rummages inside the glove compartment, the sudden movement causing Q to shrink back and hating himself for it, and the next thing he knows there is a cable tie jamming his wrists together. 

“Come on,” his captor snarls as the restraints retract, freeing Q’s torso. The relief is short-lived because Nicolas seems to have lost all patience and physically drags him out of the passenger seat through the driver door. 

He is going to nurse bruises for a week. _If I survive that long._

Q catalogues his surroundings: a semi-large square with a small park surrounded by an iron fence. There are three roads feeding into the square, one of them right behind him with a blue Audi that has been highly damaged by the impact, though not as heavily as Nicolas’ vehicle, preventing them from continuing their journey. 

The noise, however, is what surprises him. Sirens close by. The clang of helicopter blades above meaning the Met has sent air support and MI6 is probably informed. Screeching tyres from straight ahead. 

Q’s stomach drops when he identifies another black sedan, undoubtedly an alternative car for Nicolas and him. 

A split second later, Eve’s BMW appears, surging past the sedan. One well-aimed shot, a flicker of red light as the miniature grenade goes live and detonates, and Nicolas’ only hope of escape flips over and collides with the iron fence of the park to their left. 

Nicolas’ only hope. 

To get away and shoot Q in peace. 

_Oh._

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Nicolas chides as Q thrashes against Nicolas’ grip on his forearm, tries to tackle the man to the ground but to no avail. 

The car with James and Eve stops maybe ten metres in front of them, but Q can already feel the barrel of the gun against his temple and – 

Nicolas stumbles forward. 

His fingers pull back in an effort to catch his balance and Q’s body reacts without conscious thought, dropping to the ground and rolling away a hell of a lot less gracefully than intended, though he can’t do anything about the cast still reducing motion in his leg. 

As soon as he is on his back, he sits up and glances at Nicolas, who is either still standing or upright again, knocking out the assailant with the butt of his gun. 

It’s Sam. Eve’s boyfriend. 

_How the hell – ?_

But Nicolas is already shooting at the approaching figures of Eve and James, spurring Q into action himself. He manages to reach the bench nestled in an alcove of the park and ducks behind it, his first and foremost priority severing the cable ties and freeing his arms. 

It’s frustrating and takes an amount of cursing that would make Jess cry, but eventually the wire tears and Q can orient himself again. 

Eve is on the ground next to Sam, pulling his unconscious body out of the battlefield that James and Nicolas are busy fleshing out. Q watches, awed despite the situation, as the meek archivist matches their most seasoned Double-oh practically blow for blow, his youth giving him a slight advantage in terms of reflexes. 

Apparently SPECTRE Academy also teaches its deep cover agents expert levels in hand-to-hand combat. 

Q spies Farid still at Eve’s car, peering around an opened door. The stunts of the preceding chase have aggravated his leg again, so he is more limping than rushing as he darts along the fence and across the square. Two metres away from Farid and the kid finally notices him approach. 

“Sir!” he gasps. “I’m sorry, I –”

“Brilliant job with whatever you did, but this has to wait,” Q implores, rounding the car and pushing Farid back so he can check all the places he remembers that might hold weaponry of any kind. He did, after all, outfit this particular car after Eve bought it. 

There is a standard issue Walther on the floor of the passenger sear, four bullets missing though no other ammunition in sight. _It will have to do._

Q leaves Farid behind the relative shelter of the car’s passenger door. No more sedans have joined the scene, which means either the Met is exceeding expectations and doing their jobs, or that Nicolas has run out of back up. Regardless, it provides Q with the chance to approach Eve first, tracking the fight between Nicolas and James out of the corner of his eyes. 

“He’s fine,” Eve assures him, glancing at the gun lying on the floor beside her. Empty, Q interprets, and turns his attention fully onto the pair of fighters. 

His feet are still a little wobbly but the adrenalin coursing through his veins suffices to steady his hands as he aims, at least. Only James and Nicolas are too intertwined, too fast, never presenting a clear shot, let alone holding a position for long enough to take it. Q lacks the instincts of field agents, who do not need two seconds to decide on pulling a trigger. 

Just then, Nicolas manages to wind an arm around James’s throat, squeezing with enough force to have broken the man’s neck if 007 hadn’t reacted in time. As it is, the manoeuvre only leaves him choking from what Q can see with Nicolas’ back to him, but it’s enough. Q tightens his grip on the gun and attacks, slamming it against the back of the young man’s head. 

Nicolas’s grip loosens without retracting and the blink of an eye later finds Q careening to the ground from an open-palmed push. Nicolas makes an angry sound as Bond resumes his struggling with a vengeance, and has to widen his stance to keep them both upright. 

_His thigh._

After the shot rings out, Q cannot for the life of him remember taking it, but his finger on the trigger is irrefutable proof. 

As is the wound oozing blood in Nicolas’s right leg, causing the man to grunt in pain. 

It’s exactly what 007 needed in order to get the upper hand. He strikes with the speed of lightning, and two heartbeats later Nicolas is face-down on the asphalt with Bond’s knee digging into this spine. 

“Could you get me something to tie this tosser up, darling?” James says, his eyes still battle-sharp but with a smile softening his features. 

Q inhales deeply, nodding on the exhale and already stowing away his weapon. A few strides take him to Eve’s car but he doesn’t have to rummage through the glove compartment since Farid is already holding out a pair of MI6 handcuffs, reinforced to render escaping them impossible short of chopping up one’s hands. 

“Ta,” Q murmurs. “Let M know we found Blofeld a new cellmate.”

Farid nods and climbs into the driver seat. 

Once Nicolas is handcuffed, spewing curses and slurring at them with the blatantly obvious intent of riling them up or getting them to drop their guard, James stretches out his hand. 

Q tilts his head, confused. “Do you wish to hold hands?”

That earns a barked-out laugh. “No, but I’d like a weapon. You’re my quartermaster, after all.”

Belatedly, Q remembers he is currently in possession of the only firearm still endowed with ammunition. As he hands it over, calloused fingers cover his own and their eyes meet for a wonderful moment. 

_I’m alive_ , Q realises with a sudden jolt. _James is alive. The mole is in custody._

His breath stutters as he releases it, but his lips are curling into a smile. 

*

The debrief sheds some light on the aspects of that day’s occurrences that Q is admittedly bewildered by. 

After a short examination from medical cleared all of them free of more serious injuries and cleaned all minor scrapes and bruises, everyone involved piles into MTAC by the sole merit of the room’s airtight security. 

Q’s chest warms when James takes the chair on his left and places his hand on his cast-free thigh immediately. He knows better than to give away the action with a glance that could never be covert in the company of M, Tanner, Eve, Farid, R, and even Sam, who somehow did not end up with a concussion. 

“You better disentangle this mess in the next fifteen minutes,” M commands, lacking any hint of heat in his tone. 

Q begins, then James explains his presence on the scene. Farid contributes how he figured out Nicolas was lying through his teeth and the look M sends Q obviously reads, ‘We are going to talk about how this could happen later.’ Q swallows, a lump forming in his throat. This blunder will surely go on his record, damn.

“What I’m really burning to know,” M says once Farid trails off, “is how a civilian with no knowledge of Miss Moneypenny’s involvement in global espionage managed to arrive on the scene and throw a spanner in the works of a deep-cover SPECTRE agent who has apparently been dancing on all our noses for years without anyone noticing.”

Samuel Vázquez shrinks under the combined weight of seven pairs of eyes, though he squares his shoulders and clears his throat in an admirable show of courage. 

“I’m a journalist, I do investigative pieces sometimes. I’ve known for a while that Eve was lying to me about something…” He turns to the woman in question with a pinched expression. “I’m sorry, for a bit I thought you were cheating on me.”

“I’d never –”

“Well, excuse me if my first thought wasn’t that my girlfriend’s actually a spy, _maldición_ ,” Sam snaps. “Tonight was the last straw. She got a call, said it’s from her friend James, who’s so conveniently dating a bloke,” Q fights a blush at that, refusing to look anywhere but at the journalist across the table, “and she was gone. We’d made plans; I was angry. I followed her. Traced her mobile phone.”

“You did what?” Eve gasps, her hackles obviously rising. 

“Well, mi amor, what would you have had me do? Eh? Don’t pretend you could have told me anything, except more lies.”

The couple glares at each other until Tanner coughs pointedly, prompting, “When did you realise Eve and James were in trouble?”

“When the car chase started,” Sam answers after a moment, tearing his gaze away from Eve. “Those thugs were shooting at my novia, what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just watch. I followed the other car instead, the one they were chasing, and rammed them.”

That, Q remembers. Apparently, Sam actually exited his demolished car and had to seek cover when Nicolas opened fire, but he didn’t run. Q is at a loss about how he might ever repay the man for stepping in and providing Q with the window of opportunity needed to break free of Nicolas’s clutches. 

“What a stinking mess,” M grouses once everyone made their contribution. He massages the bridge of his nose for a moment as everyone awaits his next orders. “Mr Vázquez, you are not allowed to leave this office before signing every necessary document to guarantee you silence. Mr Tanner will contact you within the next twenty-four hours so you can sign the report, too. You lot.” He heaves a world-weary sigh and traces his eyes over his remaining employees. 

Q winces in sympathy and feels the thumb of James’s hand start rubbing circles into his thigh through the cotton of his trousers. 

“I have enough to update my _friends_ from Five and the Met, and everyone else thinking they’ve got a bleeding say in this, so your orders are to go home for at least twelve hours. _Rest_ ,” he adds with emphasis, glaring at Q who feigns innocence like he wasn’t already thinking about digging into Nicolas again the second he was near a computer. “There is going to be an investigation, so prepare for another round of questioning.”

He concludes the list with a flick of his hand, dismissing them with the air of a man wishing he could get away with dropping his head onto the table in front of him. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to borrow a car from your department,” James states with a cheeky grin and a promise in his eyes that quickens Q’s pulse. “Of course I’ll give you a ride home. It’s on the way.”

There is only a hint of sultriness placed on the ‘ride’, but Eve catches it nonetheless. The tension has yet to leave her shoulders, though she fixes them with an exasperated chuckle. 

“As long as I am still in charge of Q-Branch,” R interrupts sternly, “you can be glad if you get so much as a single bullet right now, 007.”

James, of course, turns on the charm. “And here I thought we had a moment.”

It rolls right off Q’s second-in-command, as always. How she does that never fails to amaze him. 

“Yes, a moment where I went behind M’s back to sabotage a mission for nothing but a _hunch_ from you, placing my entire career on the line.”

“But it paid off,” Q feels compelled to point out. “You were right to trust him.”

“Which is the only reason I haven’t put your boyfriend on the no fly list yet.”

Now that has him splutter. “What do you –”

“Save it for someone who hasn’t spent three years working with you and holds a minor in psychology,” R retorts. Then her features soften as she meets Q’s eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to join the wager Daryl has started. That would give me an _unfair disadvantage_.” 

For some reason, she is glaring at James when saying that. 

“007 left for Cancún before Daryl could have had time to start that tally,” Q says, more to himself than to his colleagues, with half a thought to this marvellously absurd turn the conversation has taken. All R does is cock an eyebrow before bidding them goodbye. 

“Hail us a cab, will you?” Q tells James with a nod to where Farid is hovering a respectable distance away. 

Ever the professional in the range of security cameras, James neither kisses him nor squeezes his hand in parting, yet his eyes are warm and Q wants to drown in them. However, he has to make sure his protégé is all right first. 

For what it’s worth, Farid seems composed, albeit a little shaken still. Q has a hard time telling what the young man needs from him right now, whether praise or… comfort? He has no clue. 

“You did good, today,” is what Q settles on, meeting Farid’s eyes. “And I need to apologise. As it appears I am incapable of sufficiently performing a basic background check…”

Farid opens his mouth, presumably to protest his self-recrimination, but Q won’t have it. He deserves every ounce of blame he will receive for this cock-up. 

“How are you feeling?” he deflects. It sounds clumsy even to his own ears. To think they let him out from behind his laptop in the first place is a miracle. How Jess turned into the social butterfly she did, a mystery. 

After a few moments of contemplation, Farid settles on a shrug. 

“Don’t hesitate to get in touch with the staff psychiatrist, all right?” 

“Mr Tanner already scheduled an appointment for tomorrow afternoon.”

Q nods. “That’s good. You should go home; get some sleep. After all, it’s –” He twists until he finds the nearest clock, then feels his eyes almost leap out of his skull. “Three o’clock. Oh.”

“I slept yesterday,” Farid makes to say, though Q is not having any of this. 

“Sleep is to be repeated daily; haven’t I taught you anything?”

“After SPECTRE, you didn’t leave your desk for a week,” is the cheeky reply. 

Q deflates a little. “Touché. But I’m serious, Farid. From what Nicolas said, SPECTRE has already changed its modus operandi, so analysing the last of the files is not as pressing as we thought it was. You can take a break for twelve hours. Will you… Do you need someone to stay with you?” he probes. Not that he likes the idea of accompanying Farid instead of James, but Q reckons he should at least offer. 

Thankfully, his protégé is already shaking his head. “M appointed me a bodyguard, just to be sure. One of the field agents. I’ll be fine.”

“That’s, uh, good.” His verbosity at this time of night is astounding, really. “Good night, then?” 

If Q thought his bumbling was awkward, the hug Farid ropes him into is doubly so. Despite Farid’s tentative movements, wrapping two arms around his torso sends a spike of pain through Q’s body. He bites his lips and forces himself to return the gesture. The young man seems to need it, and on occasion Q has been known to act selflessly. 

There is the hint of a smile on Farid’s face as he pulls back, and his shoulders are less rigid when he walks off, so it might even have been worth it. 

*

The last vestiges of adrenalin have long since left his system, yet James feels alert nonetheless. His mind is still running circles around Nicolas’s involvement, and judging by the way Q is playing with the hem of his wool coat to his right, the quartermaster is suffering a similar fate. 

His eyes come to rest on Q’s long fingers for a drawn out minute. They are in the back of a black cab, partition raised, comfortable silence as well as a respectable distance stretching between them on the bench.

James breaks the silence ten minutes before they are due to arrive at Riverlight. 

“Your aim is impeccable.”

Q blinks up from the thread he is currently teasing out of the fabric. “Thank you.”

“No, thank _you_ ,” James says, ensuring the respect and gratitude he feels also show on his features. “That bastard was… unexpectedly skilled.”

An arched eyebrow. “Is 007 actually admitting that his superiority has bounds?”

“Only in the absence of prying ears.”

It has the intended effect and Q smiles, softly but genuine. His lips part, though he hesitates, as if considering whether to voice whatever it is he intended to say. Q drops his gaze, but begins, “I was panicking, after his backup arrived.” 

“Understandable.”

“No, I mean… On my way to a complete anxiety attack, right there in the passenger seat. It wasn’t the thought of dying – but the knowledge that I had been outsmarted. _Again._ ”

James’s hand closest to Q clenches, but he doesn’t argue that Silva’s success isn’t to blame on the quartermaster alone. He never patronised the man and pretended he did everything perfectly, however; so James will not change his tune today. Q can handle guilt; he has proven that in the wake of Skyfall. 

“You know what helped me stave it off? The panic, I mean?” A flicker from a streetlight illuminates the green of Q’s eyes for a split second. James gives a minute shake of his head. “Seeing you.” 

Taken completely off guard, James’s pulse _stutters_ , a fact he swears to take to his grave. 

“You were leaning out of the window, bloody _shooting_ at those gits even with Eve’s blasted driving… It’s sappy, I know, but.” Q sighs, and turns his head to look outside the window, right hand scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry, just forget I said that. I’m not in full possession of my wits, right now.”

His chest is tight with something James refuses to name, at least at this point in time. He swallows, trying to make his voice work and find the right words. Yet in the end, he realises he does not need words at all. 

Q startles when James takes the his left hand into his own, palm up and fingers relaxed for probably the first moment of the ride as most of Q’s attention is still on the other one. James shuffles closer so he won’t aggravate any bruises when he lifts Q’s palm and brushes his lips against the inside of his wrist. 

When their eyes meet, Q’s are wide and there is a blush blooming on his cheeks. James smiles and settles into the new position. He keeps a light grip on the still unfamiliar hand but lets them rest between them in the shrunken space. 

When Q exhales, his breath trembles. 

James tilts his head, lips curling into a smirk. His partner only hesitates for a moment before shifting carefully until his side melts against James’s, who switches the hands as his arm wraps around Q’s shoulder. Thick curls tingle a little as they touch the underside of James’s jaw when Q places his head on his chest. 

James kisses Q’s temple, then rests his cheek on the crown of Q’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, James and I attend weekly Romantics Anonymous meetings. 
> 
> I have to admit I am rather proud of this chapter and Nicolas’ actions here :D But I swear, if Nic had changed his plans regarding what to do about Q _one more sodding time_ , I’d have shot that bloke myself and cut his entire culminating point… (For the record, this here is Complicated Evil Scheme #4. I am not kidding.)


	10. Break my fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final chapter!!! Endless thanks once more to merlenhiver for concrit and cheerleading, as well as Iriya for awesome beta services! Virtual hugs to everyone who spurred me on with comments and kudos! I couldn’t have done this without either of you.
> 
> As to why this has become a series: Merlenhiver won a bet and she wished for a little M-centric something. Which turned into "House of M" =)

The weeks immediately following Nicolas' takedown are a bloody mess. 

True, Q says the same about the aftermath of both Skyfall and SPECTRE – or about basically every mission where James stretched the respective parameters beyond their limits – so maybe it’s just business as usual. At least the inflicted property damage was slightly less extensive. 

However, this time it happened at home, in London, and not in a crater far away from civilization. As such, the repercussions might be considered disproportional by some ( _Eve_ ), but Q suffers through the disciplinary hearing nonetheless. 

“All I received was a slap on the wrist, really,” Q sums up the result of five excruciatingly tedious hours spent with the committee and the joint chiefs. “Of course it's a sodding blemish on my record, and I've been saddled with several night shifts now that I'm back from leave, but it's not that dire. The committee mostly want to save face, I reckon. Officially, I'm on probation,” he adds, pausing in revising the line of code he is tinkering with on the side. “It's not like they could actually threaten to fire me.” 

Arrogance aside, he is perfectly aware that, given his skill set, the only way to end his contract is termination, in the campy spy thriller sense of the word. Q knows James knows that, too. 

“It's nice that at least one of us finds the humour in this,” the Double-oh grunts, annoyance colouring his tone. 

There is the sound of shifting fabric over the channel; presumably 007 attempting to find a more comfortable position on the balcony in Osaka, Japan, that he is currently perched on, making it impossible for Q to tell the exact origin of his annoyance. 

Night shift today means assisting Bond in apprehending a car and arms dealer by taking up residence in MTAC for several hours. The last time Q saw the man was for brunch, which was romantic and hot and probably traumatised poor Linux for the rest of her feline life, but said brunch was two weeks ago that Saturday after the Nicolas debacle. So Q is dubious in how much these disciplinary actions even amount to a slap on the wrist, let alone a reprimand.

On the surface, James and he are back to their usual bantering selves, yet Q can’t help but think it feels different, somehow. More intimate, maybe. Comments that appeared off-handed previously are taking on an entirely new meaning and Q finds himself trading personal information back and forth with James during the recent influx of SPECTRE follow-up missions. Or righteous anger, in case of the hearing Q has been forced into. 

“Yes, dear. You have made your opinion on my official warning inescapably clear.” 

James hums, a low rumble that sends a shiver down Q's spine. “Should you be using such terms when everyone can check the recording afterwards?” 

Q pauses his tinkering to straighten his glasses. “I'm not sure what you heard, but the minions don't actually download mission recordings and invite everyone over for popcorn and soft drinks.” 

Velvety laughter echoes over the channel. “I take it you haven't seen the newest odds?” 

Q squints at his laptop screen, unseeing. “Odds? What - oh, you mean Daryl’s unsubtle attempt at meddling? No. I barely keep up with my own wagers, let alone those I hold no interest in.” 

“It's quite entertaining,” James says. Q can practically _hear_ his smile. 

“Enlighten me, then. Mr Fukiwa seems to be taking his sweet time with his illicit dealings, which means we have a couple of minutes.” 

“Well, the general opinion is that you wouldn't date a civilian.” 

“The title of intelligence agency appears to be justified, then. Let me guess - they have me paired with every available bachelor in MI6?” 

“No, there are trends. Some have their money on your mini-me –” at which a strangled sound escapes Q’s throat, “others think you'd go for someone like Rhys –”

A better man than Q could have resisted such a steep serve. Probably. As it is, he teases, “You mean charming, handsome, cultured and presently very tanned?” 

If silence had a colour, the current one would be green, Q muses before putting his partner out of his misery. “Please, jealousy is not necessary, Bond. There is such a thing as too much muscle.” 

James just huffs. 

“Any other notable contenders?”

“Oh yes,” comes the low response. James pauses, maybe for effect, and Q picks up his mug to take a sip. It was a mistake. 

“M.” 

“What?!” 

“I reckon that was Bill’s doing,” James says, obviously assuming that explains anything. 

“Why would Tanner...?” 

“I think he hasn't forgotten how M insisted he stay when he knew Michonne was due any second with the baby, and this is his belated, passive-aggressive revenge.” 

Q has to take a deep breath. He fears for the safety of the Kingdom. Bill Tanner looks like the harmless administrator he wants you to think he is, yet underneath the surface lies a menace if prompted or provoked. 

“It's not my favourite option, though,” James continues.

“What could possibly be stranger?” Q sits down pre-emptively. It seems like a wise choice. 

James chuckles again. “A third of the participants are betting on Eve and Sam. Some sort of polyamorous endeavour, or maybe queerplatonic, if I'm not mistaken.” 

MTAC is empty, so Q lets the laughter bubble out of him without restraint. “Well, he did save me. Sam, I mean. Now, did you make the list?” 

James harrumphs in assent. “But 009, Dr Frost, and Tess, I believe are the only ones actually putting money on me.” 

“And who of them did you tip off and are going to split the winnings with?” 

James gives something that sounds almost like a cackle. “So the line is secure?” 

“No, but I can erase certain phrases,” Q explains. “Going dark would raise too many questions, especially since I’m monitoring you from MTAC. Besides, I'm on probation, after all.” 

A pause. “At moments like this I'm glad you ended up on my side.” 

Q smirks to himself. “You mean, because you wouldn't be able to take me down?” 

“Oh, quite the contrary. I would take you apart, slowly, and it would be my _pleasure_.” 

The tone does something to Q and most of his blood vacates his brain. He is saved from coming up with a witty reply when their car and arms dealer finally concludes his deal and Q has to coordinate the local reinforcements as well as an overeager Double-oh. 

* 

Several hours later, Q is sitting in his office writing up his report. Mr Fukiwa will not be selling anything else for the foreseeable future and 007 damaged only a single vehicle when apprehending the criminal. 

_Maybe that's an early Valentine's Day present?_ Q wonders, and grins at the digital form he is filling out. 

“My, aren't you chipper today!” comes Eve's voice from his door. 

Q smirks without looking up. “Someone was a very good boy last night.” 

“Please spare me the details of your phone sex with James,” Eve says, eliciting an eye-roll from Q while she places a paper cup in front of him. 

Then she leaves her hand splayed out on the lid, drawing his gaze. 

A delicate ring he has never seen before with a pale green meteorite at the centre adorns her finger and just like that he knows what's inside the cup. Which doesn’t mean he cannot play daft, just to tick her off. 

“Thank you,” he replies blandly. His expression speaks of ignorance. “What's that? Tea?” 

“A Caramel Brulée Latte.” 

Q tilts his head, making his brow crease. “What would I possibly do with such a monstrosity?” 

Eve schools her expression to play along, but the corners of her mouth won't stay pursed. “Well, taste it, of course! You did promise.” 

He refuses to twitch. “When did I ever do that?” 

Having expected something like this, apparently, Eve doesn't hesitate and swipes a thumb across her phone screen, then pushes a button. Q's voice is played back at him through the speakers of the device.

_“It is October 31st, 2012. I, Q, hereby promise to try any overpriced, sugary, caffeinated concoction set in front of me by Miss Moneypenny when aforementioned Miss Moneypenny enters a betrothal.”_

It was the night that really cemented their friendship, aided by tequila and a recent breakup on Eve's front. How the conversation led to Q's hatred of Overpriced Syrupy Anything, he still hasn't pieced together again. 

Three and a half years later, he nods, desperately clinging to his straight face.

Then he thinks, sod it, and let's the smile split his face. Eve cheers and forces a hug on him as soon as he is next to his desk, then shoots the paper cup a meaningful look. Q sighs and drinks while Eve films it on her phone. 

“Sam wants to laugh at your grimace, too!” 

Q glares, but indulges her. She did spend a week at a hotel because Sam said he needed space. Who'd have thought he would emerge with a proposal? (Well, Q, 007, and 009, obviously, since they are about to take the tally.) 

“Ah, there is my secretary.” 

They jump apart, abashed. Of course M’s eyes find the ring immediately. The furrow of his brow softens. “Congratulations are in order, then.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Eve replies cordially. “I apologise; I just had to cash in a debt.” 

“By forcing early-onset diabetes on my quartermaster?” 

“It's a long story,” Q hurries to interrupt before Eve decides to replay the recording. “What can I do for you, sir?” 

M’s face is perfectly neutral. “Oh, nothing in particular. I just thought I'd pop by and commend you on tonight's mission. I was under the impression that is what a good boyfriend does.” 

Q grinds to a halt, stumbling over his own feet, which does nothing to keep the blush from spreading from his face down his neck. 

“I am so sorry, sir, I don't know whatever gave anyone that impression.” 

“I would find it flattering,” Eve butts in, completely unbidden. 

“Obviously. Since I am over 50 and our quartermaster is such a catch,” M remarks drily, though his look is fond when he turns toward her, “what with his youthful grace and politicking skills.” 

Q scoffs, about to argue that he has to have some redeeming qualities since he has pulled James bloody Bond, but a knock interrupts him as everyone turns towards Bill Tanner. His smirk when he sees M and Q in the same room is positively devious. 

“I heard a rumour about new jewellery?” he wonders, eyes coming to rest on Eve, who extends her hand for Bill to coo, and a cheeky, “That rumour is true, for a change.” 

Q's office feels way too crowded for his liking. Good thing Bond is still in Osaka, or maybe even on a plane by now, for he would unmistakably find a reason to join them and tease Q some more about his minions’ opinions on their overlord’s tastes in romantic partners. 

“Be warned,” Eve says once she has finished her retelling of how Sam proposed (after a home-cooked meal with scented candles – Q hides his sneer behind the paper cup). “I'm afraid I'll have to subject you all to an engagement party. My parents insist on throwing one if I refuse to let them pay for the wedding.” 

Oh yes, Eve's parents. Q has never met them since they are almost as busy with their real estate agency as Q is babysitting agents. Besides, Eve isn't particularly keen on spending time with them. They are what Q's mother calls “posh gentry folks” and what Q deems arrogant pricks with a silver spoon up their arses (Eve agrees, coincidentally, or else their friendship would have been over before it even had a chance to blossom). 

The meeting of both in-laws will be terrific, considering Sam’s parents are first generation working class immigrants. Q wonders if he would get away with selling recordings of that particular event to select minions... 

“Well, baring emergencies I'll be delighted to come,” M tells her. He is sincere as far as Q can tell, and Tanner echoes the sentiment in kind. 

Q believes this enough socialising for the early hour of the morning. “Yes, lovely. I have a report to finish, so may I return to doing useful things to advance Britain’s position on the field of global espionage?” 

Eve slaps his arm playfully but takes her leave, M following with an indulgent smile. Tanner stays another couple of minutes to catch up on the night’s proceedings and to send Q home. 

“But I have to debrief 007 –”

“Which can wait until tomorrow. You’ve been here for over eighteen hours, Q.” 

He sniffs. “The logs will tell you that it’s been merely twelve.”

“Yes, because even you can’t hack the security guards’ memories,” Bill shoots back. His gaze takes on a glint, then, and Q straightens in his desk chair. “Just because you’re back on rotation doesn’t mean you need to return to your usual eighty hour weeks right away. Go home. Get some rest. I’m sure you’ll need your energy when Bond returns.”

Q, who has been glaring that the other man for the duration of his little speech, assumes an air of fake-bafflement. “But I thought I was sleeping with the big boss?”

Tanner just grins and leaves him to finish his report. 

*

Under protest that is only fifty per cent put-upon, Q leaves the CNS building after submitting his report and checking in with R. Back at his flat he manages to shower Linux and Turing in attention for a quarter hour – meaning he chases them about the flat with a laser pointer – before he showers himself (in water, obviously), brushes his teeth and collapses into bed. 

It is several hours later when he awakes, he can tell by how rested he feels. What awoke him was the dipping of his mattress. One moment later there is a hand winding around his waist that is becoming more and more familiar. 

Q turns within James’s hold, folding his arms on top of the sheets and blinking his eyes open. The agent looks flight-tired but content, maybe even a tad smug. He is also shirtless, a state that the late afternoon sunlight falling in through the bedroom window paints in handsome shadows. 

“I hope you reported to MI6 before breaking into my flat,” Q says in that sleep-rough voice he gets sometimes. His bed mate seems to like it if the curl of his lips is any indication. 

“Even brought back all of my equipment.”

“In one piece?”

“Naturally.”

Q snorts. There is nothing _natural_ about 007 and the attrition of his gear. 

“Besides, I didn’t break in,” James adds. “Eve told me about the palm print lock. Quite brilliant, I thought.”

“I’m torn between revoking Eve’s access, yours, or both,” Q grumbles, but there is no heat behind it. He has been putting off telling James that he practically already has a key to the flat since he installed it, and he would have continued putting it off if Eve hadn’t intervened. If he wants to be mean, he could simply change the access code for the door seeing as the print scanner alone won’t grant anyone entry, but right now that seems like too much of a hassle. 

“Why don’t we shelf this for when I’m not recently returned from a shootout?”

“The shootout was your own bloody fault,” Q points out. 

“The other bloke shot first.”

“That’s what the ’97 version of episode IV wants us to believe, too. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

James considers him, eyes bright with obvious amusement over his nerdish ways. “Did you compare me to Han Solo?”

“In my book, that’s a compliment.” Great, now he sounds defensive. 

To his relief, James laughs and kisses him. They haven’t done this nearly enough, Q decides, and relishes the languid pace James seems content to match. The next half hour is spent on the most breathtaking ( _literally_ ) snogging session Q has ever participated in. He lets his hands roam the planes of skin presented to him, tracing scars he can match to files and incidences, weapons and faces, until he feels James tugging at the hem of his nightshirt. 

Just like that, the atmosphere shifts. The voluptuous mood gives way to something almost charged as Q’s heart leaps into this throat. 

He has never had his shirt off in front of James. Even their first time in the kitchen saw him half-dressed, which justifies his apprehension, he thinks. His body looks nothing like those of men Q knows James slept with (primarily as component or side effect of one mission or other), and he himself is not overly fond of his draw in the genetic lottery. 

Yet when he finally sheds his graphic tee, James looks at him as though he is delectable, too. Q can feel his face heat under the scrutiny yet keeps his shoulders squared, allowing James to drink in his fill. 

“You’re beautiful,” James says, like one does, apparently. 

“You’re not bad yourself,” Q replies, hating how timid he sounds. 

James rises to his knees and shuffles closer, all battle-hardened contours and graceful movements. Q is hesitant to touch all of a sudden regardless of how much he wants to, but James is already in his space, then, tracing the jut of his clavicle with calloused fingertips. 

It’s the arousal he sees in James’s eyes that is his undoing. Q surges forward, kissing him hungrily as his hands return to the swell of James’s biceps, the dents of his back, and finally the outline of that firm arse underneath a layer of cotton trousers. 

James groans into his mouth when he flexes his hands, kneading the flesh a little, and just like that Q knows exactly what to do. 

“Trousers off,” he commands, “then lie back.”

There is not a single moment of hesitation and that in itself chases pleasure through Q’s body. He discards his own clothes quickly and without any of the grace that seems to come so naturally to James, but he is too randy to care. 

He swings his finally cast-free leg over James’s thighs, then stretches towards his nightstand for a bottle of lube. When he looks down again, he is met with an intrigued expression. 

Q smirks as he coats his right hand, tracing the relief of James’s abdominal muscles with his left. Once he’s satisfied, Q shifts forward until their erections touch and they both gasp at the contact. 

Having James underneath him, hands fisted into the sheets and oh-so blatantly trying to keep himself from taking control as Q strokes both their lengths at a torturous pace… it’s heady, dizzying, addictive. Q wonders how he could have lived without this for so many years. 

“Kian,” James groans, just a hint impatient. “Get a sodding move on…”

Q leans forward so he can whisper brush his lips against the shell of James’s ear. “Say it again.”

“Kian,” James says in that low, rumbling voice of his that makes Q’s throat dry. 

He picks up the pace diligently, alternates pressure, rhythm, and trajectory until he has determined the most effective combination to reduce the man underneath him to writhing gasps and strangled moans. The way James simply lets go, how he gives himself over to pleasure and allows himself to be so bloody vulnerable is overly erotic and stimulating, and before long Q is teetering near the edge. 

They come within a minute of each other, and the fact that he made James Bond be selfish for a change and find release before his partner fills Q with a sense of accomplishment he will never ever share with anyone. 

When Q collapses onto the mattress next to James, his partner considers him with something akin to awe. 

Q quirks an eyebrow. “Have I made you speechless?”

He gets a shagged out nod in reply along with a contented smile before James pulls him closer. Q smiles into James’s skin, warmth filling him to the core. 

*

James still has nightmares, sometimes. More frequently after certain types of missions, most severe when water is involved. 

Tanner screens his assignments to avoid anything too triggering, James knows, but even Tanner can’t change the fact that he is the only Double-oh available for a quick termination on a freighter. 

He gets the job done. Under the cover of darkness, he swims to the extraction point, where he has to wait and shiver for a half hour, only the sound of the waves to keep him company. 

What is peculiar, though, is that it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. He can’t even pinpoint the last time his thoughts drifted to Vesper. 

The realisation sends James’s thoughts spinning.

*

Johannesburg at the end of February is blessed with warmth. Unfortunately, most of the South African sunshine escapes James since he spent the past three days at the Insurance Distribution Conference of 2016, posing as an angel investor for minor insurance companies and hoping to involve one of his ‘colleagues’ into more detailed discussions regarding their itinerary.

So far, however, the wealthy East African businessman Mr Wasswa Nsimbi has proven resistant to James’s approach. 

“If all else fails, spill some Champagne on him and plant a bug,” Q suggests over the comm line. 

James can hear the _clack-clack-clack_ of the man’s fingers on his keyboard, meaning he is multitasking in the face of the long and boring stretch of tonight’s concluding party. 

“Or I could just announce my identity, how about that?” James teases. “It’s about as subtle as your suggestion.”

“Pardon me for keeping an eye on the clock, 007,” the quartermaster drawls. “Nsimbi is flying off to a meeting with SPECTRE and I’d rather prefer not having to explain to M why the information on where the hell it’s taking place is not in our possession.”

James exhales heavily, concealing his frustration by straightening his glasses. It’s a gesture he copied from Q himself; maybe the man will recognise it via the video feed the glasses are transmitting right back to MI6. The camera is integrated into the dark Wayfarer frame, the signal supposedly untraceable. Obviously it’s a prototype and James would bet half his payslip that Q only finalised them to see him wear them. 

Across the room, a young woman in a strikingly white dress approaches Nsimbi, only to be rebuffed with a mindless wave of the man’s hand. 

“Who is she?” James murmurs, masking it by taking a sip from his Martini. 

“His flavour of the week, I reckon. Hang on…” More clacking, then, “Lisa Ncetzo. You’re after the same person. She’s an as of yet only marginally successful plus-size model who seems to be with Nsimbi mostly for his drug running twin brother, the SPECTRE affiliated Kato Nsimbi.”

James blinks at the woman currently making her way to the bar on his left. “There’s nothing plus size about her.”

“Not in the eyes of the global fashion industry,” Q mumbles. “Well. She’s booked into his suite, so she’ll be leaving with him tomorrow.”

“Meaning she will know their destination,” James concludes, draining his glass. “Please tell me she’s above the age of consent. Of every country.”

“Twenty-one last June.”

Thank the gods for small mercies. Even James has a line. 

As the dice fall, he makes his way to Miss Ncetzo with his smoothest smile. His alias Thomas Antuma is soft-spoken and on the shyer side, thus perfectly opposed to the booming presence of Wasswa Nsimbi. Lisa soaks in his compliments and bashful glances that fail to be covert, then goes putty under his hands in his hotel room. 

The faint _clack-clack-clack_ he hears through his earpiece gives James pause as he licks a path down the beautiful swell of her chest. This disinterest is strange, yet only because it takes James by surprise. He can’t say what he expected; how he thought Q would react. Silently stewing in jealousy, maybe? Or using the display as live-action pornographic material? Definitely not treating this like every other thing James does that doesn’t require his handler’s full attention. 

It’s good, though, he realises a few minutes later. James likes the relationship that has been blooming between him and Q – Kian – but the job comes first. Q not only seems to understand this but also knows how to handle it. 

Much later, as Lisa is basking in the afterglow and her phone has been thoroughly bugged, James hears the clacking halt. His handler knows his tricks too well. 

“I’m leaving for the Caribbean tomorrow,” James whispers, aiming a hesitant smile at the woman when she opens her eyes. “Could I… I mean. Would you like to accompany me? I enjoyed our time together.”

She’s already shaking her head. “My boyfriend’s taking me to Antwerp. I can’t go with you.”

“But you had a good time, right?” James asks, since his alias lacks his own ability to gouge a partner’s reaction. 

Lisa assures him she enjoyed herself, then leans in for one last kiss before gathering the clothes strewn across the room and bidding him goodbye. 

“When’s my flight?” James says out loud as soon as the door has clicked shut. 

“In two hours,” Q replies without missing a beat. He sounds perfectly normal as if he hadn’t just borne witness to another honeypot mission. “Documents are on your phone as usual. I’m activating one of our contacts in the city to check Mr Nsimbi is genuinely on route to Belgium, but we want you to have a head start.”

“Good.” James is already moving towards the shower. The glasses are in place again, providing Q with a perfect view of his nude body in the bathroom mirror. 

“Care to stay on the line?” James purrs. 

It elicits an exasperated sigh. “As much as I’d like to aid you in your quest to misuse government property, 007, I’ve been on duty for the past sixteen hours. It’s either I go home and sleep while you’re tucked in on the plane, or you’re having to do with R for tomorrow.”

James throws a towel over the glass wall of the shower with a huff. “Since when are sixteen hours enough to send you home?”

“Since Tanner’s been making it his mission to ensure I adhere to _‘resting time regulations’_ ,” Q spits with enough revulsion that James can hear the air quotes. 

“Aw, poor quartermaster,” James jeers, switching on the five-star hotel shower. The jet of the water is loud enough to make manipulating the recoding easier, afterwards. “I’ll have to get you wet in person, then.”

An audible swallow sounds over the line. “I’m looking forward to it, James.”

He smirks at the mirror. “Sweet dreams, Q. 007 removing earpiece.”

*

In Europe, James and Q prove why they are considered the most effective team in all of MI6. 

Granted, R and 003 and Rhys and Hayden aren’t too far below them in the agency’s ranking, both official and unofficial, but the combination of James’s experience, knack for creative solutions, and the speed of Q’s mind and fingers remain unbeatable for three years post-Skyfall and counting. 

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up and listen,” Q announces on the tablet screen, which James is presenting to one Trevor Kani. “We know about your family. We know why you’re doing this.”

The way Kani blanches has comic potential. James may have spotted the man’s less enthusiastic attitude towards his job, yet Q was the one who hacked more databases than will probably end up on his report to find out if James’s hunch was correct. 

It was, needless to say. 

“We have ourselves a mole,” Q announces fifteen hours later as James is doing laps in the hotel pool. “And you made it an entire mission without firing a shot or inflicting costly damage on historic landmarks. M is certain that the Hades has turned into an ice skating rink.”

“Ha-bloody-ha.”

“Is that splashing sound water, 007?”

“One hopes to find some in a pool.”

“Why are you in a pool?” 

“To burn off the energy I’d saved up for all the shooting and destruction,” James deadpans, though he isn’t even joking. 

“Oh, in that case, carry on. Nsimbi’s schedule only has one more meeting in the city, with someone from the American SPECTRE fraction tomorrow for lunch.”

“It’s as if they’re lining up for us to identify,” James comments. Last night’s gathering included all the major players for the Eurasian branches, which means MI6 is gaining on SPECTRE after Nicolas’ reveal that their data is more or less obsolete. 

“You’re just ratty because you didn’t think reconnaissance would honestly be reconnaissance for a change.”

James doesn’t dignify that with a reply. Q knows he’s spot on, after all. No need to stroke the man’s professional ego. 

*

He waits for it all to go tits-up and turns sullen when it doesn’t. 

The lunch ends before dessert because the woman responsible for the Americas is called away for an emergency, but James has both picture and her DNA, courtesy of used silverware. 

He tails Nsimbi for the rest of the day with another handler, sends a postcard to Q, and the following morning spends the flight home daydreaming about the shooting range at MI6. 

He sees the headline on his way out of arrivals. 

_‘UPDATE: NO BAIL FOR DRUGLORD EL HUNO’_ , the news ticker on the bottom of the screen says. Intrigued, James pulls up CNN on his phone. By the looks of it, Rhys finally had a breakthrough in Cancún that ended with both his cover still intact and their original target moving into a cell. 

The bastard is going to be insufferable for the foreseeable future, James thinks darkly. 

When he arrives at MI6, it’s exponentially worse than expected – not because of the successful mission but because of what happened upon 009’s return. 

“Rhys brought Q a present!” Farid enthuses, since assisting James in saving the day apparently gives the boy leave to blab at him whenever they are in the same room. “Presents, actually! Pure vanilla, and a bottle of Mexican Tequila… oh, and Mayan chocolate!” 

“Fascinating.”

“I know!” Farid agrees, never mind that James’s tone was drenched in sarcasm. “Everyone who put their money on 009 says this is proof, but Wenham says no.”

James makes a non-committal sound. 

“I mean, fine, I get that it’s not, y’know… unequivocal. But it’s bleedin’ obvious, innit?”

Curious despite himself, James asks, “What’s Wenham’s definition of unequivocal, then?”

Farid huffs. “A kiss or something. I don’t get why 009 didn’t go for a peck; they were standing really close. And Q seemed really happy with the presents. Okay, maybe a wee bit annoyed? But in a fond sorta way? And then Rhys whispered something in his ear and his smile turned really dozy. The boss’s, I mean.”

James only realises he has tensed up when his fingernails start digging into his palm. He can imagine exactly how they must have looked, Q and that Welsh oaf. That charming, cultured, handsome oaf, if Q is to be believed. 

The surge of jealousy rolling over James and settling in the pit of his stomach like molten lava is completely irrational, but it’s there nonetheless. It keeps him company throughout the day, from the shooting range where he kills two hours until the required persons are free for his debrief, to said debrief during which Q impresses M, Tanner, R, and the other two handlers with the deluge of intel he has been able to glean since the mission’s conclusion. 

It licks at his gut on his way home and has James let himself into Q’s flat instead of his. Indulging Linux soothes him somewhat, but now that the flare of anger has passed, James is confronted with a reality that involves caring deeper for his quartermaster than he has yet admitted to. 

“Care for a shot?” 

Q sets the bottle of Tequila (pure blue agave, the good stuff, James notes begrudgingly) onto the coffee table, gaze lingering on the purring Linux in James’s lap. 

“I hate tequila.”

“In general or this very bottle?”

James peers at the other man. There’s confusion in those green eyes, along with something softer that James cannot name. 

“Seeing as it’s a gift from your personal inner-agency antagonist?” Q continues.

He shrugs and returns his attention to the cat which is pushing back against his fingers with relish. Q babbles on about Rhys and his and James’s dynamic both at MI6 and in the field, stumbling over his words because they come out too quickly.

He’s nervous, James realises. Only question is about what. 

“Rhys is a pillock who hides behind his body mass and wavy hair,” is what he eventually interrupts with. It makes the rambling stop, though the flummoxed expression that takes over Q’s features might be even more unnerving. 

The quartermaster blinks down at him for several long seconds. It’s long enough for Linux to decide she’s had her share of tender caresses and jumps off his lap. 

“Eve was right.” 

It’s a statement, though Q makes it sound like a question. 

“About?” James prompts, even though he instantly knows the answer. 

Q, meanwhile, does his best to impersonate a goldfish until he eventually gathers the nerve to say, “You being jealous.” He exhales, but the breath is shaking from the forced flippancy. He tries to smile, but it ends up as a grimace. “Absolutely mental, obviously.”

Putting himself down is a peculiar habit of Q’s, as James has discovered. Never in the field or at work – as quartermaster, the man is filled to the brim with rightful arrogance. Yet in his personal life, Q loses much of his confidence, becomes shyer. James understands it, for the most part: Q prefers computers to most humans, and mindless niceties or small talk don’t come naturally to him. While his skills are abundant, they do lack when it comes to social skills. 

It irks James a bit, if he’s being honest. He has found Q to be great company. So he pushes himself off the sofa and slips his hands into the pockets of his trousers, asking, “Why’s that?” 

Then he watches his partner struggle with a response. 

Q licks his lips. “Frankly? Most days I’m still not sure how I even caught your fancy, and earning your jealousy is a step further, isn’t it? I mean…” He huffs, folding one arm across his midriff absent-mindedly. “We never really said what this is, did we?”

James’s mind, usually so quick to adapt, slows at the prospect of talking. He’s a man of action, not of words. 

“I assumed – no, I was _sure_ this is a relationship, but we never talked about it, so I might have been operating under false pretences.” Q clears his throat and suddenly he is scowling. “And I swear, if you don’t say anything in the next five seconds, I’ll bugger up your tablet and phone so it won’t let you play poker anymore.”

James holds up his hands, palms out, lips curling. “No need for drastic measures.”

Q doesn’t look appeased, so he casts about for the best way to phrase this. 

“I can’t offer you much, Kian.” He sees Q’s eyebrow twitch at the use of his real name. “You know my schedule. You know the parameters of my missions.”

“Just as well as you know that my job takes priority too.”

“Yes,” James concedes. “So as long as we both agree that England will always be the mistress to occupy part of our bed, I’m prepared to share all that remains.”

“Of your bed?” 

Those green eyes are still veiled in doubt and insecurity, and James hates it. 

“Of my life,” he admits, his voice rougher than he would have liked, but he covers it with a stride forward. The movement puts him toe to toe with the young man who seems to have been startled by James’s admission. 

“You mean I wasn’t too presumptuous?” Q wonders, holding his gaze. 

James shakes his head and touches his palm to Q’s jaw, stroking his thumb across the smooth skin of his cheek that colours under the contact. “We’ve been dating since January, in my book.”

“Well, at least you told me before our three month anniversary,” Q quips, and then he’s laughing, whether at his own joke or from excitement, James has no idea. All he knows is that it’s infectious, and moments later he is laughing too while Q wraps his hands around James’s neck, closing the gap between their bodies. 

James’s hands come to rest on Q’s hips as he swallows the next chuckle with an enthusiastic kiss. 

“Bedroom?” Q suggests. 

“You have the best ideas,” James purrs back, and lets Q pull him along by his belt buckle. 

*

When they haven’t lost all their marbles after two months of dating each other, Q suggests taking the next step. 

“They’ve starting betting on Maurice from Logistics!” Q scoffs as James and he are curled up on the sofa, with Turing and Linux slumbering in the armchair. “We should really put those poor sods out of their misery.”

James considers him and for a panicked heartbeat Q fears he is moving too quickly. Well, spending Friday night watching telly with his boyfriend and his _cats_ is bloody domestic, all right? He’s not to blame for any lapse in judgement. 

Yet to his relief, James smirks. “What did you have in mind?”

Which is how, on Monday morning, Q is thrumming with anticipation as his department fills with minions. Daryl is set to arrive at half nine to collect the latest estimates that Q refuses to email since the mix-up three quarters ago, and the feed on his desktop shows James is in place, waiting for his cue. Eve is keeping him company, since neither of them wanted to irk her when her parents were doing that enough for ten lifetimes regarding the upcoming engagement party. Which was still four months away. 

“Ah, if it isn’t my favourite quartermaster,” Daryl’s voice sounds from behind Q. 

“I’m your only quartermaster.”

“You sure? I might be keeping one locked up in the basement.”

“There’s nothing below the garage,” Q shoots back good-naturedly, handing over the folder containing the estimates. 

He positively feels James entering the room, given the hush that falls over the gaggle of staff present. The way Daryl’s eyes widen is utterly satisfying and Q makes a note to copy the surveillance recordings onto his private laptop later. 

“Here you go,” James says, holding out the scrabble mug bearing his codename. 

The agent is holding a similar one, only on his there is a large B and a lower-case three. 

Q allows his fingers to linger on James’s as he accepts the beverage. “Thank you, James.”

“You’re welcome, darling,” James murmurs back. The room is quiet enough that even Yeun in the corner will have heard it. 

It’s not the kiss Farid mentioned to James, but Q will be arsed if that wasn’t pretty darn unequivocal. 

Daryl is the first bystander to remember his voice. “I seriously did not see that coming.”

Q can’t help the sneer the man’s remark elicits. “I believe this is the moment I say, ‘I told you so’?”

“You’re a right bastard, you know that?” Daryl grumbles, but he’s having a hard time maintaining his composure. “Bloody spies.” 

“It’s like he forgot where he was working for a moment there,” James cuts in, utterly deadpan and maybe a tad malicious. It might have been a mistake to mention the history he has with the accountant, Q muses. 

Daryl makes to say something, but seems to think better of it at the last moment – it probably wouldn’t have been too polite, if the stink eye he is giving James is any indication. 

Instead, he clutches the file to his chest with a huff. “Well, guess I’m gonna have to distribute some winnings, eh?”

Daryl’s departure opens the floodgates. Eve finally starts laughing – Q worries about potentially cracked ribs on her part for keeping it in so long – and Farid suddenly appears at their side. 

“That was brilliant, guv!” the boy blurts at James. “Absolutely mental, too. Fucking hell, it was you all along, wasn’t it?”

James nods with smug satisfaction. Q chuckles – he’s dating a grown man with the mentality of a five-year-old.

The gesture must have been a sufficient signal for the rest of his minions that it’s safe to approach and they spend approximately ten minutes fielding questions and assuring people that “Yes, we are dating, this is not a drill” until Farid of all people ushers his colleagues back to work. 

“You realise his hero worship is going to reach new heights, don’t you?” Q says once Eve waved them goodbye and R smiled fondly, as though their grand revelation wasn’t news to her. Then again, it probably wasn’t. 

“Mini-Q?” James teases. 

He rolls his eyes. “Stop calling him that.”

“But it’s his name,” James insists, and smothers all protests with a kiss no one sees but that will be immortalised on the surveillance footage.

Just this once, Q decides, he’ll leave it there.

* 

**_Four months later_**

“Why isn’t James back yet?” 

Eve’s glare is truly intimidating. She would have crossed her arms as well, Q reckons, if she weren’t already clutching her purse and jacket. 

“You say that as though you aren’t privy to every single one of M’s orders.”

“The mission was supposed to end yesterday, so that James has enough time to fly back to England, go through the debriefing process, and be coiffed in time to accompany us to my parents’ estate.”

“Because 007’s missions always go according to plan,” Q drawls, and Eve slaps his arm. Thankfully, Q-Branch is utterly empty, seeing as the cafeteria began serving dinner ten minutes ago and there was a lull. 

“You’re going to miss the car service, and you and I both know you can’t steal one of the agency’s cars.”

“You seem to forget I do own a bike,” Q points out, counting down in his head for the inevitable reaction. 

The appalled face Eve makes is priceless. 

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t mention that machine anymore. I’ve been so good at denying what I saw.”

“Your own fault for ignoring a closed door.”

“It was the bloody workshop! How could I know there’s a kinky bastard underneath that prim and proper exterior who actually agrees to defiling property of the British government!”

“There was no defiling of government property involved,” Q protests, not for the first time, “since it was _my own bike_.”

It had been in need for upgrades, so Q brought it into work with him. James returned from his mission that evening and found him tinkering, asking if he knew whom the beautiful machine belonged to. 

“Oh, she’s mine,” Q smirked, delighting in the way James’s gaze first turned surprised, then aroused, then devious. The fact that Eve walked in on them only sweetens the memory, in his opinion. 

Back in the here and now, his best friend sighs. “And you’re sure you’ll make it in time? I won’t survive that daft affair without my best friend.”

Q reaches out and pats her arm awkwardly. “No worries. We’ll be right on time for narking your parents’ posh tits of acquaintances and flaunting our sexuality.”

At least that is Q’s intention. He failed to calculate a delayed flight, which incidentally also rendered the ‘Ta for not dying in Damascus’ sex impossible. In fact, they barely have time for a proper debrief and donning their bleeding fancy wear in the spacious employee bathrooms of RTD. 

Q eyes the revers of his suit with distaste. At least it’s pointy. He refused to buy a bow tie, though. The other guests will have to live with his slim ties. 

“You ready yet? The helmet’s going to bugger up our hair anyhow,” Q calls around the corner where James insisted on showering alone lest they get distracted. 

“Not everyone can pull off the mad scientist look, darling,” comes the reply and – _oh_. 

“One of your cats caught your tongue?” James teases, turning on his soles to show of how incredibly fit he looks in his tuxedo, satin revers and bow tie included. 

“Uh – nice jacket,” Q stammers, but his embarrassment turns into curiosity when a strange shadow passes over James’s face. Nothing gloomy, just… strange. 

“There are dinner jackets and dinner jackets,” the agent says. His tone is soft, as though his statement was a confession of sorts. 

Q tilts his head. “As long as I’m the one to get you out of it, I don’t care which one this is.” 

For some unfathomably reason, the question earns him a full-bellied laugh as well as a passionate kiss so full of emotion that Q can’t remember how he got from the bathroom to sitting on his motorbike and speeding out of the building. 

The beautiful day pushes nearly thirty degrees Celsius, sky peppered with fluffy white clouds and streaks of blue, so the entire herd of guests is still milling about on the lawns outside of the, well, manor that Eve calls her childhood home. 

It’s a far cry from the cramped flat Q shared with Jess and their Ma and Ta, to say the least. The two-storey manor is stately, situated in the midst of acres and acres of fields, ponds, and trees. Eve said the thing has about thirty rooms full of domed ceilings and was built in the 1700s. 

The lawn is a lush green and incredibly soft under Q’s soles, making him feel even less like he belongs here. James, on the other hand, fits in perfectly, from his outgoing smile to assured gestures as they weave their way through the assortment of MI6 personnel, Sam’s co-workers, and high-brow ‘friends of the family’ who are all desperate to appear open-minded and tolerant of their queer relationship. 

Needless to say, the pointed looks and backhanded comments do nothing to make Q feel better. 

Dinner distracts him from his insecurities, at least. It’s positively hilarious to watch everyone navigate the topic of their jobs with Sam’s friends and family. James earns back some points by merit of his Spanish skills, and after the betrothed have opened the dance floor, the atmosphere becomes decidedly less stiff. 

Q leaves James to discuss sports with Sam’s best mate – apparently they met before – to seek out reprieve from idle small talk he has no use for near the bar. 

Unfortunately, the peace doesn't last long, yet James quickly saves him from the overbearing “My sister’s gay, too” and “Aren’t you dashing!” that Eve’s aunt imposes on him. 

“Let’s dance,” his partner suggests, already pulling him towards the gaggle of couples. 

Q’s joints lock immediately. “Hell no!”

James quirks an eyebrow in question. 

“I have two left feet. You don’t want to see me dance.”

“I’ll lead.”

“Not even then.”

“I’ll keep it simple,” James promises, but Q is still shaking his head. 

“Take Eve for a spin. Or hell, Sam for all I care.”

Only James Bond would manage to make a pout look attractive. Q mentally curses his boyfriend for his stupid looks and his daft blue eyes and his own sodding inability to say no to him outside the office or missions. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the wedding to prove your abilities.”

They turn towards the familiar voice. M’s expression is pinched, a frown tugging his lips downward. Q thanks the universe for whatever catastrophe happened that made his boss interrupt this ill-fated scheme to make him flail to music.

“What happened? Minsk or Kiev?” Q can almost feel James’s disapproval for how overeager his tone is. 

M raises a hand. “Not you. I’d fear retaliation of apocalyptic proportions from my secretary if I pulled you from this party.”

Q gives a curt not. Next to him, James has morphed into 007. 

“I apologise, but 008 is still not fit for active duty, 002 is too far away to get there in time, and everyone else would be hard-pressed to abandon their current assignments.” 

M seems genuinely sorry, so Q can’t even be cross. Besides, both the Minsk and Kiev conflicts have been expected to ignite sooner rather than later. 

“I’ll leave right away,” Bond acknowledges. 

“Bill volunteered to drive you back; he’ll have all the necessary forms for you to sign, too, seeing as your resting period isn’t up yet. He’ll be waiting outside in five minutes.”

Their boss leaves after inclining his head. James leans into Q’s space as soon as he has turned around. 

“Meet me in the foyer. I’ll tell Eve.”

Only too happy to get away from the dance floor, Q obliges and four minutes later he is reunited with his partner. 

“Is she quite cross?” he wonders as James slips right into his personal space. 

He can feel the man shake his head, stubble brushing against Q’s cheek. “You might want to stick close nevertheless.”

“Sure.” 

James’s tone turns playful. “I’ll try to stay in one piece this time.”

Q gives him an imploring look. “Please see that you do. Sewing you up is not something I want to do again.” 

James reaches out to stroke his thumb over his cheek, and Q’s heart leaps to his throat where it beats out a staccato. 

“Besides, there’s still blood in the towels. ‘Just wash them like always’, my arse. Good thing you’re in the Double-oh programme and not in maintenance.” 

He rambles when he’s nervous, and he might have kept mumbling, yet the lips covering his own make it a tad difficult. He melts into the kiss after the briefest moment and loses himself in the delectable taste of James. 

“Enjoy the rest of your night, Kian,” James murmurs into his ear before pulling back. 

He doesn’t step away, however, and Q seeks out his gaze. 

“I love you.”

Q’s heart stutters. His first impulse is to say it back immediately, his second to just kiss the man silly, but he goes with the third.

“I know,” he quips, certain that the look in his eyes will assure James the sentiment is mutual. 

Judging by the glee in James’s eyes before he slips outside, Q was right, and he hopes James is still smiling when he is boarding a plane to his latest mission. 

It’s not difficult, letting the man run off and save the world. After all, Q knows James will return to no one but him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … and that’s a wrap! Suit porn time: James would look something [like this](http://www.celebritysuitshop.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/daniel-craig-dark-blue-tuxedo.jpg) and Q [like this](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/485403666059221658/). 
> 
> Anyway, I hope y’all enjoyed this final installment as much as I did! Your comments have kept me sane for most of these past two months, and I’d love to hear what you thought. Seriously, comments always make my day =) 
> 
> **EDIT 08/2016 - On a personal, self-advertising note:** My next short film "The Hacker" is based on my Bondlock fic "Loyal in Adversity". So if you're interested in that you can check out our [campaign page on Indiegogo](https://igg.me/at/thehacker). Seriously folks, it’s very fandom-y =)


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